A Life in Ruins
by pough and sazz
Summary: Daniel's dangerous coping mechanism is finally taking its toll.
1. Chapter 1: Where Do Broken Dreams Go?

AUTHORS' NOTES: This story covers everything up until 'The Light,' so major spoilers for just about every episode up until then. Set throughout Season 3 and Season 4, with many references to most of the past episodes of Season 1 and 2, as well.

Also, please note that this story deals with the very difficult and serious issue of addiction and substance abuse. We tried to handle this as sensitively and as realistically as possible, but please be aware that this may not be an easy story to read. We have taken major liberties with canon, interspersing our own original plotline along with the actual events of the show, but of course, there is nothing in canon to suggest what we came up with is actually true.' Think of this as an AU, a 'what if story,' if you will. :-)

This is actually four, very long chapters that we've broken up into smaller, bite-sized pieces, so I hope the way this is posted ultimately makes sense. The final chapter, 'Reparations' is finished, but still in the tweaking stages, which we will post as quickly as we edit. And here we go!

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG1 and its characters are property of Stargate (II) productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money was exchanged. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Where Do Broken Dreams Go?

* * *

He stepped from the rain-drenched night into oppressive, stale air. Cigarette smoke and the odor of dirt, grime and maybe even decay hit him with an almost physical blow. It was exactly what he was looking for. Exactly the way his soul felt—dirty, worn out and a little too close to stagnant for him to care what happened to him anymore. He couldn't even call it despair. When you were in despair, it mattered what happened next, and for the first time, it didn't matter. 

Nothing mattered. Not tonight.

He found himself in this place after he'd finally left his apartment when he couldn't stand its emptiness anymore, and had walked as far as his legs were willing to take him. He ended up this part of town he hadn't even known existed, and had come into this bar when the cold rain left him shivering and the miles he had walked left his feet too tired to carry him any further. Despite the squalor of the place, this was just what he needed. A place so far removed from his own circle as to be another planet. Where he could just disappear and hope his pain wouldn't be able to find him.

Dripping wet, he slogged over to an empty table in the back corner. Anonymous, hidden. Sliding into the scarred wooden chair, he rested his hands on an equally scarred pine table. The battered jukebox belted out an old, familiar sounding tune about lost love and devastation. A universal pain, one of which he should be able to relate. But he wouldn't allow himself to. Not yet.

The thick smoke made his eyes burn, diluting the feeling of numbness he so carefully fought to maintain. He reached under his glasses to rub at his watering eyes, wincing at the faint twinge from the still healing burned skin on the bridge of his nose and forehead. Even after two weeks, the burn and his head still ached with a distant throb of pain. The noise of the crowd and the blaring music pelted him. Each beat seemed to vibrate off his skin, set his teeth on edge, and he wondered if coming in here had been such a good idea, after all.

Readjusting his glasses, Daniel finally took a good look around the crowded bar. It was the kind occupied by biker types, men with their shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal bulging muscles earned by physical labor, not by pumping iron in an overpriced gym. Standing next to a group that looked like refugees from a chain gang movie, a burly, tattooed man met Daniel's gaze, his black eyes narrowing. Daniel didn't lower his eyes, but clenched his jaw and issued a silent challenge.

_Go ahead. I've got nothing to lose. Not anymore._

Daniel thought the man must have sensed his desolation, or maybe, he realized just how close to the brink Daniel stood, and he looked away with a sneer on his rough features.

Daniel was almost disappointed. He had almost wished for a confrontation. Would have welcomed it, even. He wanted a reason to lash out, to strike out at someone, something. Feel his knuckles split under the impact. Allow the rage and the destitution and the guilt to leave him in a furious volley of swinging fists and kicking feet. He would have even welcomed the pain. A broken nose, bruised ribs or broken fingers would have at least felt real. Something visceral—a punch in the stomach to replace the tumultuous, churning anguish. Something that people could look at and understand.

Maybe he wanted the pain because he knew he deserved it. He deserved it, and so much more for the pain he had caused her. For his failure to save her.

Looking down at the table, his fingers lightly traced the burn scars etched into the wood. Someone had scratched his or her initials beside a scorched black circle. 'PL.' The scratches looked old, and he hoped the owner of the initials had moved on to better places than this.

The music switched to something with a frantic tempo and a deep bass that thrummed in Daniel's chest like a second heartbeat, that cut deep into his eardrums, into his very soul, it seemed. Now he understood why he'd come in here. The assault on his senses overtook the emotions straining to come forth, to derail him, and the noise somehow pushed them back into submission, where he wanted them to stay.

A shadow darkened the letters under his fingertips, and Daniel glanced up. His attention was met by the gaze of a waitress dressed in a tight black T-shirt and jeans that were at least two sizes too small.

"What can I get you?" she shouted over the noise.

He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his head and spoke the first words that came to mind. "Scotch on the rocks." Not something he normally drank, but it was a change from what he'd been drinking the previous few nights, and scotch was as good an anesthetic as any.

The waitress nodded and moved away from the table. She hollered his order at the bartender and disappeared back into the gloom.

It had been two weeks of time off-base for Daniel. Two weeks of wandering in a haze of shock and grief too deep and too raw to fully allow himself to comprehend. Two weeks of building up the walls, of avoiding contact as much as possible. Two weeks since Daniel's life had come apart once again. Two weeks of repeatedly coming to the same conclusion and no matter how he worked the problem, it would never come together again.

The impossible fact to wrap his mind around was after all his searching, she had been right there. Right in front of him. Daniel had spent three endless years looking for her, only for it to come down to maybe five minutes to try to reach her. And to fail. There had been time enough to say, "I love you," but not enough to say, "I'm sorry." Time enough to call out her name, but not enough to reach her.

And that was all he'd had to do. Make her stop, and make her see. And he hadn't been able to do it. Hadn't been able to stop her from trying to kill him, and Teal'c did what he had to do. And Daniel had forgiven Teal'c for that. After all, Daniel knew Teal'c wasn't the one to blame. Daniel was the one who had failed, and all it had taken was one staff blast to make those three years of searching come to a screeching halt. Make it all for nothing.

It was strange how it had all come down to one instant. One decision. One life for another, but what made his life more valuable than hers? What did her death leave him with but two weeks of crushing devastation and having to spend a lifetime with guilt and unanswered questions?

Feeling sudden tears prick behind his eyes, Daniel angrily tore the rain-spattered glasses from his face. No matter how hard he tried to grasp hold of the numbness, his eyes betrayed him. They could still ache, they could still see, they could still cry. Almost as punishment for that betrayal, he pressed his fingers against his eyes until yellow splotches formed against the blackness of his eyelids, and the sockets began to hurt. This new pain somehow pushed the tears back, somehow distracted him. The only pain he would allow himself to feel.

His emotions and tears firmly willed into submission, Daniel dropped his hand back to the table and decided to keep his glasses off and left them lying there on the table. It was better when the world was blurred anyway. There wasn't anything in this place that he wanted to see. Except maybe a glass full of Scotch. And there it was, he noted when his vision readjusted—a cold-fogged tumbler set besides his glasses. The waitress must have deposited his drink without disturbing him. He wondered if his very appearance told her he was going to need a tab. It was likely his body language spoke the words for him.

The room was fetid with sweating bodies and air that held smoke and grease. The cold glass quickly formed beads of condensation, a mixture of the room's oppressive heat against the iced glass. He pulled the glass closer and its coldness was a small shock to his fingers. It proved that he was still here, still alive, still breathing, still feeling, when that was the last thing he wanted to do. He needed to be numb again, needed to try to forget.

Unfortunately, after two weeks, staying numb was getting harder and harder to do. When he'd first lost Sha're to the Goa'uld three years ago, it had taken a long time to ward off the pain, but there was always that hope of finding her. Now the hope was gone, and all that remained was pain. And aching. And a need to mask it with liquor, and there didn't seem to be enough liquor in all of Colorado Springs, although still he tried. Still he drank.

Forgetting was even more difficult, because for some reason, everything reminded him of her. He felt brittle, ready to shatter at the slightest provocation. At the same time, he didn't know why he'd been holding such a tight rein on his emotions. It wouldn't make any difference would it? It wouldn't bring her back. Maybe he was just afraid that once he let that rein loose, he would start wailing and weeping and he wouldn't be able to stop. Maybe the biggest fear was knowing that he had to find some way to start over, and starting over would mean admitting to his failure. To the reality that she was gone forever this time, and that was a reality he wasn't certain he could face.

No, he knew he couldn't face it, couldn't face being left behind yet again. Maybe it would have been better if Teal'c hadn't intervened in time, after all. Whoever thought that he, Daniel Jackson, would be able to shoulder such burdens? Well, he couldn't. It was too much. Too goddamned much.

He was going to make himself forget, and he knew he was soon going to reach a point where he was numb enough. Even if it took an entire bottle, he was going to try to forget—at least for one more night. At least until he could see something other than her eyes closing and her body becoming still.

He blindly reached for his glass. Taking a long gulp from the drink, he hazily noticed that the alcohol no longer burned when it went down, no longer made his lungs want to spasm, unlike the first few days afterward when all he could do was cough and gasp after each sip. Raising the glass to his lips again, he downed the drink in another long swallow and set the tumbler at the edge of the table.

A short time later, another drink appeared, and it disappeared in the same fashion as the first.

Then another. And another.

He felt a faint tingle in his fingers, a warmth settle in his stomach. An illusion of calm began to fill him. That was better. Even an illusion was better than stark reality. The magic of alcohol—watch closely as this glass of Scotch makes the pain disappear. Just like magic. Only every night the magic took a little longer and a little more Scotch.

He took a sip from the fourth drink, or was it the fifth one? He had lost count, but he drank it slowly. This one he could drink slowly and let the sharp taste dissolve on his tongue and watch the world fade out. His head began to distantly throb again, but whether it was from the aftereffects of the ribbon device or the smoke, he couldn't be sure. Again, it didn't matter.

Glancing up at the now muffled sounds surrounding him, he heard a few hoots and wolf whistles from the chain gang crew by the pool table. Daniel blurrily saw a young woman duck inside. Her long hair and dark green jacket were wet from the rain.

The woman—no, she was more of a girl, maybe 22 or 23 years old at most—edged up to the bar, keeping her eyes averted from the suggestive leering glances in her direction. A few moments later, a glass of something dark brown appeared in front of her.

Daniel lost interest, took another sip from his drink. He knew he was getting seriously drunk. Good. That called for another drink. There was nowhere he had to be, so what did it matter?

He tossed his head back, closed his burning eyes, the scotch pooling at the back of his throat, and let it dribble down the numb passage. When the liquid was gone, he sucked in a breath of squalid air and felt it chill within his mouth. Opening his eyes to the shock of even the subdued lighting, he turned his head and found his gaze in line with the young woman's. Their eyes met and she gave him a shy smile. Daniel blinked and quickly looked away. That was contact, contact with another person, and he didn't want contact with anyone or anything.

In truth, he hadn't spoken to anyone other than the waitress in days. Hadn't even spoken to any of his team—especially not to his team. Not even Jack, who had left numerous messages on his answering machine, the messages varying from gentle teasing, to shouting for him to please pick up the goddamned phone now, to threatening to break down Daniel's door one day and haul his stubborn ass out of his apartment. For some reason, Jack had never made good on that threat, and Daniel hadn't returned his or any of their calls. There were no words he had to offer. They wanted to know how he was. Wanted him to tell them how he was feeling, so how could he answer them?

After all, he couldn't forget what he so desperately wanted to keep at bay if he spoke to them.

There was a movement at the bar again. He glanced up to see the same man who had tried to stare him down earlier now standing within a hair's breath of the young woman. He pressed his barrel chest up tight against her arm, his leering grin revealing stained, uneven teeth. The woman moved away from him, averted her face, and her gaze again locked with Daniel's. She picked up her drink and without a backward glance at the unwelcome attention, strode over to Daniel's table and sat down without invitation.

Daniel saw the man readying to come after her, but was stopped by a few words from the equally well-muscled bartender. The man laughed at whatever the bartender had said and continued to talk, losing interest in the woman, at least for the moment.

If she had come to him looking for some shelter from her storm, she had come to the wrong place, Daniel thought through his haze. He knew he only brought harm to those he tried to protect. Those he cared about. He thought about telling her that, but she spoke before he could form the words.

"Sorry. I'll leave in a minute." She pulled off her wet jacket, tossed it over the back of the chair, and ran her fingers through the length of her damp brown hair. Long strands fell over her shoulders and across the thin, white T-shirt she was wearing. "I just wanted to get Godzilla over there off my back."

"Yeah, I saw," Daniel said with a half-hearted shrug. "Stay if you want." He suddenly found that her company wasn't welcome and it wasn't unwelcome. It just was. _And don't expect anything from me, either_ a subdued, but snide voice in the back of his mind added.

The woman reached out a slender hand to shake. "Mary."

"Mary," he said, blinking with heavy eyelids and forcing his alcohol-impaired tongue to properly form the syllables. He reached out an arm that felt even heavier and shook her proffered hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mary."

She stared at him with upraised eyebrows, waited. "And you are..."

"Oh. Right." Daniel closed his eyes for a moment. "Daniel. I'm Daniel." He dropped his head, sipped his drink once again, turned the glass slowly on the table, staring into its depths and said, "And you're Mary." His vision was too fuzzy so he put on his glasses again. It brought the world a little more into focus and maybe the frames would mask the welts on his forehead. The last thing he needed was questions about how he'd burned his forehead.

"This is gonna sound like a line, Dan, but what's a nice guy like you doing in a shithole like this?" Mary said, hazel eyes sparkling with amusement, full lips quirking with a tease of a smile.

"What makes you think I'm a nice guy?" Daniel slurred, tilting his head slightly. Nice guys didn't leave their wives alone, only to be captured and subjected to unimaginable horrors for years, did they? Didn't let their so-called friends shoot them in the name of defense, did they? His stomach violently clenched at that thought, and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He closed his eyes to stave off the nausea, but when he did, all he could see was Sha're's shocked face when the staff blast tore through her body, so he quickly opened them again.

Mary settled more comfortably in her chair, studied him without being too obvious about it, or so she hoped. She didn't believe him for a second. She saw something in his exhausted blue eyes that spoke of hurt and guarded despair, not cruelty or ill-intentions. Probably the reason why she was drawn to him the second their eyes met.

Daniel saw the skeptical look on her face and almost had to smile wryly to himself. Despite the truth of what he was, what he'd done, he knew people for some reason still thought of him as a nice guy, although he certainly no longer looked the part. He had been wearing the same ragged black sweater for two days, couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved, and his damp hair stuck up in whatever pattern his finger had raked it into.

"I should ask the same thing of you," he finally said. "What you're... you're doing here. This isn't the kind of place a... woman comes into alone." Looking into her eyes, at the cautious set of her features, Daniel recognized her. He didn't know her by her full name, had no memory of ever having met her, but he knew her. He knew the hollow look in her eyes, the defeated tone of her voice. The lack of vitality. She was just as alone in the world as he was. He didn't need to ask, he could see it all too clearly in those almost golden eyes. It was the same look his own eyes held, especially in the last two weeks.

Mary shrugged, then folded her arms over her chest in a familiar mannerism, as if she were cold, as if she were shielding herself. "I can take care of myself." Glancing behind her, she breathed a visible sigh of relief when the tattooed man was no longer standing by the bar and had gone back to his table. "This place isn't so bad, really."

Daniel nodded, not in agreement, but giving her that moment of bravado. He slumped back in his chair, his legs and arms were leaden. Everything was becoming almost perfectly numb and he wanted to hold onto that. He didn't want to feel sorry for her. He just wanted to be left alone with his salve, so he didn't say anything more.

Mary took a sip from her drink, raked a hand through her still damp hair and leaned her elbows on the table. "I'm so sick of all this rain."

Daniel muttered a sound of agreement, but in truth, he'd scarcely taken notice of the weather. It was somehow fitting. The cold and the wet almost a cocoon. People's hunched shoulders and umbrellas wielded like shields, an effective way of keeping a safe distance from them.

"I'm surprised this place is so crowded." Mary darted another furtive glance around. "You'd think most people would stay home on a night like this."

The waitress reappeared before he could answer, so Daniel simply asked Mary what she'd like to drink, instead. He didn't take note of what she ordered and requested Scotch number five, or maybe it was six. He was still feeling queasy and the fact that he had nothing but coffee and alcohol in his stomach wasn't helping. He found he didn't care about that either, but knew he would be caring soon, when it all came up again as it inevitably did. Unless he was very careful about it and then he could drink himself into a stupor. Mornings were the hardest, or afternoons—whichever the case may be. None of it seemed to matter in the least.

Something to worry about later. Not now.

"Are you from around here?" Daniel asked Mary, attempting a semblance of a conversation more out of unconscious politeness than anything else, once the waitress had left. He couldn't even remember the last conversation he'd had with anyone. If he could clear his head enough, it might even be a relief to talk to someone who didn't know anything about him. Who didn't look at him as though he might shatter at any moment.

"Yeah, for now, anyway," she answered. "If I can find a job, I'll stick around for a while."

"What do you do?" Daniel asked, taking a sip from his drink and ignoring the protest from his stomach.

She snorted as if he'd asked a ludicrous question. "What do I do? Whatever. Waitress, cashier, whatever I can find."

Daniel squinted against his bleary vision to study her face, wondering if she were younger than she looked.

Mary noticed his scrutiny and her cheeks tinged with pink. She sat up straighter again. "I've had some bad luck, that's all. No shame in starting over."

"No, there isn't," Daniel agreed, and her sudden defensive manner relaxed somewhat as she leaned back in her chair again.

And there was no shame in it at all. Except, what did you do when you no longer had the will to start over? Was there shame in that? He supposed there was if it meant giving up. Sha're hadn't wanted him to give up, in fact, she'd wanted him to find her child, but he didn't think he could do it. The child. _Her_ child. Not theirs, as it should have been. It meant doing something she should have done. So many "should haves." And it meant finding a child born of her and a Goa'uld. A child of rape. What would he see in that child's eyes? Did he even want to see?

But no matter what he wanted, he had made her a promise, and it ripped at his gut every day. And once he started trying to find her child, being true to his promise, it would mean letting go of her and grasping onto another lifeline, another quest, and he wasn't ready to do that yet.

"Hey," she said, touching his hand. "Where'd you go?"

Daniel looked up, surprised at the contact, and he stared at her through oscillating vision. He shook his head and took another sip. "Sorry. I'm, uh…I've had a few…" Daniel rattled his glass and the ice cubes swirled against the sides. Setting down the glass, he licked a stray drop of Scotch from his lower lip and closed his eyes against the light-headedness. "What were you saying?"

Mary gave him almost a sad smile. "Never mind. So I'll ask you again, what's a nice looking guy like you doing sitting in a dump like this, looking like he's lost his best friend?" She looked away from him to dig in her bag.

"I did lose my best friend," he answered, all his inhibitions suddenly, seemingly gone for the night. "I lost my wife." He froze for a moment and realized it was the first time he'd dared speak the words aloud.

Mary frowned at the quaver in his voice, then nodded. "You got dumped, huh?"

It was Daniel's turn to frown, then his foggy brain comprehended what she meant. He thought what he'd said was perfectly clear, but maybe it wasn't. "No, she… she's dead." He looked down at his glass, wanted to take another sip but there was nothing left but melting ice. He didn't even remember drinking all of it.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," Mary said, her voice soft. "Really, I am. I mean… that's rough."

"Yes, it is," Daniel agreed. There wasn't much else to say, was there? It _was_ rough, but you were supposed to get over it. After all, Sha're had been gone for years, anyway. It's not like losing her had happened yesterday, as some well-meaning, but unintentionally dense crewman had said to him a few days after her funeral.

"So, tell me what she was like?" Mary asked, still digging in her bag, searching for something, then finding what she wanted, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"Who?"

Mary's eyes slid over the reddened burns across his forehead and nose, over his fingers twisted in the short, thick hair on the side of his head. "Your wife. How long were you married?"

Daniel reached inside his glass and pushed the ice cubes around. The cold no longer shocked his fingers, in fact, they felt disjointed, distant. "Four years, I guess. Something like that."

"You guess?" Mary repeated, a look of confusion on her face. "How did she die?"

"Does it matter?"

"No. I guess not."

"Wouldn't change anything, would it?" Daniel shot her an irritated glance from under his eyelashes, wondered why she cared, and went back to stirring his ice cubes.

"No. It wouldn't." Mary sat motionless while Daniel shifted in his seat, carefully dropped his head back and closed his eyes. "Got a headache?"

"Yeah."

"Is it from that… bruise on your forehead? What happened to you?"

Daniel pulled his head forward, waited for his equilibrium to even out, and rubbed his left temple where the pain was the most intense. "Why are you asking me all these questions?"

"I'm sorry. I'll stop. It's just that…" Mary lowered her eyes, grasped hold of her purse and tried to rekindle the simplicity of the conversation from minutes past. She wondered why she always found herself attracted to these kinds of hurting, angry, closed-off men. Wondered why it hurt so much when they weren't interested.

"Look, forget I asked," she said, pushing herself away from the table. "I'll just—"

Feeling an unexpected pang of guilt at the barely concealed wounded look on her face, Daniel reached over and grabbed her wrist. "No. I'm… I'm sorry. Let me buy you another drink. Really. Sit down. I'm…It's just not been a great week. Or two. Year, really. I'm sorry. Sit down."

Mary gave him a cautious look, pulled her hand away, but sat down again. Retrieving the pack of cigarettes from the table, Mary slid one out, lit it, took it from her mouth and offered it to him. Daniel surprised himself by accepting. Mary took another cigarette from the pack and lit one for herself. Daniel couldn't remember the last time he had smoked, but his world was so disjointed, so out of whack, sitting in a rundown bar with a total stranger smoking cheap cigarettes seemed somehow right. And so they smoked in companionable silence, and the waitress brought another round. Had they ordered another round? He couldn't recall.

The music changed to an old anthem about rock n' roll being the kinda music that soothes the soul, and some of the crowd cheered and whistled. A loud disagreement broke out over by the pool table. Curses and threats rang out over the music, and Daniel and Mary looked over to see the man who had been harassing her earlier shoving at a smaller man, who angrily waved his arm in the tattooed man's direction. The smaller man shouted something at him, then stalked outside, seeming to opt for the cold and wet instead of a brawl.

Returning her focus to Daniel, Mary said, "So… do you… would you maybe wanna go someplace else after this? Someplace a little… nicer? Your place, even?" she asked, assuming a casual air, but Daniel could see the quiet desperation there. She looked suddenly, frighteningly young, or maybe he was just feeling old. Worn out.

He offered her a faint smile, hoping it didn't look as fake as it felt and shook his head. "I'm really not very good company right now, Mary."

"You don't have to be good company, or talk much or anything. I don't care about that," she replied, and the suggestion was all too clear in her eyes.

He met her steady gaze. "I know."

"It's just… I mean, you don't know me, and I don't know you, and I think that's just about what I need right now. Maybe you need that, too—I don't know. But hey, no strings. No complications. No emotions." Mary shifted on her chair, picked up her cigarette again, took another drag before continuing. "It's just not good to be alone, you know?"

Daniel nodded, understanding what she meant. He felt only a deeper sadness at the softly spoken words. How many times had she looked for someone to take her emptiness away? He only wished his heart and his mind were empty. That would have been easier. When he'd ventured out into this cold and wet night, it was the emptiness of his apartment from which he'd needed escape. Despite the clutter and the numerous artifacts, his apartment had always seemed empty, been lacking of something. And that something was Sha're, he supposed. And now that she was gone, it seemed cavernous, cold and inhospitable. At one time it was filled with the hope of her. That alone had always brought a warmth to the space. With that hope gone, it was just empty, and he couldn't stand it anymore.

The music switched to an old Led Zeppelin song—one of which Daniel could never remember the name. The raw, ragged voice and enthusiastic beat a sharp contrast to Mary's quiet despair. She shifted in her seat and crossed a slender leg over the other, her foot bobbing in time with the music, her body language of careful, false indifference. She pretended it didn't matter if he didn't want her, but of course it did.

Glancing at Mary's high cheek-boned, delicate face, Daniel felt an unexpected twinge of arousal and he suddenly thought, _why not?_ Why not take her up on her offer? Why not just take her to his empty, lifeless apartment and take what they both needed? There was no one to wait for anymore. No one to be loyal to. Why not just go with her, close his eyes and feel another body pressing up against his, sweat-dampened skin rubbing together, muscles trembling, fingernails scratching against his back, and why not just forget? Why not?

He looked at her and nodded. "Okay," he said, speaking so softly he didn't think she'd hear him or even follow what he'd meant, but she did.

She looked surprised, then gave him an oddly sad smile. As though she hadn't really expected someone like him to take her up on her offer. A so-called nice guy.

They finished their cigarettes and the smoke burned like self-retribution in Daniel's lungs. He inhaled the sooty air, let it steep, burn at his throat, let the ashes fill his mouth and take away the bitterness of his guilt. He gulped down his drink in a few quick swallows, the alcohol adding to the burn, seeming to thrum in his veins.

Mary finished whatever it was she had been drinking, and Daniel threw a few twenties on the table. He watched as she put her jacket back on and had a moment of doubt. A moment when a muffled, Scotch-drowned voice inside his head implored him to think about what he was doing. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, winced at the flare of pain, and disregarded the voice. He then stood, holding onto the table when the world swayed for a moment. His blood pounded against his eardrums and his eyes blurred, a red-tinged haze hovering at his peripheral vision.

Mary took his arm, pressing close beside him as they wove through the room that was blue with smoke. Patting at his jacket, Daniel discovered that he'd left his cell phone at home, and she kept hold of his arm even as he stopped by the exit to use the courtesy phone to call a cab. As she held onto him, he wasn't sure who was supporting whom.

Outside in the street, the soft rainfall replacing the oppressive cacophony of the bar, Daniel's ears rang with the absence of accentuated sound. The air smelled of ozone and wet pavement.

Mary suddenly giggled, sounding as drunk as he felt, but Daniel didn't think she'd had enough to drink to have become that inebriated. In his own state, he wasn't sure of anything anymore. They shuffled from one opening to the alley to the other and tottered to a stop. She giggled again, tugging playfully on his sweater. Daniel saw her small hands balled up in the woolen weave. No rings of possession. No grace in their quality. Cracked, dry skin. Cheap jewelry.

"It's still raining," she said, raking her nails against his chest.

"Is it?" Daniel asked, running his hands down her arms, guiding her backwards, out of the light of the street, back to a wall to lean against. Mary stumbled, but Daniel kept hold of her and she slipped her hand inside his jacket, around his back and under his sweater. Her small fingers were cold against his skin, and he shivered involuntarily.

"You're shaking," she said, her laughter gone, her fingers snaking over his trembling flesh. "I can warm you up, Dan."

"Yes, I'm sure you can," he said, his body moving her against the dripping brick wall, his hands pressed against the cold masonry on either side of her. He tilted his head, bit his lower lip, and groaned at the feel of her hands working their way down his back and hips.

Standing on tiptoe, her lips found his and she pressed her tongue against his teeth. He gasped when her hand slid from his waist to the button fly of his pants. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, and he could taste smoke and something sweet.

The mixture of stimuli—the taste of her mouth, the heat of her hands, the blood rushing down through his body—threatened to topple him. He grabbed hold of her face, rushed to meet her mouth with his own, and swung them both around until they had completely changed places.

He pressed his back against the brick of the building, the wetness of the stone seeping through his thin jacket. He released his hold on her, dropped his head to rest on the brick, and tried to breathe. His hands fell to his sides, scrabbling against the dripping wall. Mary forced a leg between his legs and straddled his thigh. She started nuzzling his neck, her fingers stroking him with maddening persistence. Daniel muttered something about their cab going to be there soon, but his words were smothered when she again pressed her mouth against his. She trailed her tongue from his lips to trace the line of his jaw and he felt her breath puff against his ear.

"Gonna make you feel so good, baby," she purred from deep inside her throat.

The words had an all too opposite effect on him. Made his stomach clench with something close to fear, made his mind shy away from what he was doing. Was he finally listening to that Scotch-soaked mumbling voice of reason? Maybe he simply didn't want to feel good. Maybe he couldn't ever feel good again. Sha're would never feel good again, so what right did he have to try to?

He took hold of Mary's hand, stilling its ministrations and moved away from her. He wanted to explain. He wanted to tell her it wasn't her. It was him. He wanted to protect her from further pain, but he couldn't protect anyone, much less a total stranger. He stumbled a few steps out of her reach. Mary stared at him in confusion.

He wasn't going to do this. He couldn't do this no matter how much his body screamed for release, for anything but spending another night alone with his shattering grief.

"I-I'm sorry, Mary, but I… I can't," he nearly whispered, shaking his head even though the motion made him feel nauseated.

"What? Why not?" Mary stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. And maybe he had. Maybe his mind had splintered into as many million pieces as his heart had when he'd watched the life drain from his wife's eyes.

"I can't," he gasped, shaking his head again.

She tried to reach out for him, but he stumbled back. She took two wobbly steps toward him, but he held out his hands. "I can't, Mary. Just…please."

"Look, I—we don't have to… do anything, you know? We could just talk, or listen to some music, or something?" Mary said, moving closer to him again, running her hand up his arm, her eyes wide, expression almost concerned. Maybe she could feel how badly he was shaking, see how near the tears were to the surface. Or maybe she just didn't want to be alone, and even a guy who wasn't interested in her was better than nothing.

Daniel shook his head again. "No… it's… like I said, I'm not very good company right now." _I don't want to drag you down any further._ "I'm just… I'm sorry."

Mary opened her mouth to say something, but a soft crunch of pavement and the bright yellow fender of a cab rolled up to the curb. They watched until it came to a stop. Mary ambled up to it, tottering slightly on her heels.

Daniel followed. "You go ahead, all right? I'll find my own way home," he said, opening the door for her.

Mary turned her head to look at him, a faint sneer of disappointment marring her pretty features. Daniel looked away from that sneer. It made her look tough, made her look older and with a start, he could suddenly picture what could become of her.

"You can't—I... I don't have enough money to get home," she admitted, her cheeks staining deep pink.

Daniel reached into his wallet, his fingers clumsy, and thrust some bills at her. She hesitated for a moment, then took the money, refusing to meet his gaze. "I'll pay you back," she muttered.

Daniel shook his head. "It's okay. Don't worry about it, all right? Good luck to you, Mary," he said, wishing he could offer her something more, but he couldn't think of anything. He was beyond being able to help anyone anymore.

She gave him a mingled look of confusion and hurt, then got in the cab, pulled the door shut and slumped back in her seat, disappearing into the shadows. Daniel watched until the cab pulled away, listening to the tires creaking on the small pebbles on the pavement and watching the red taillights disappear around the corner.

He looked back at the bar, unsure what to do. He didn't want to go back inside and call another cab, so he decided to start walking. Every couple of strides he placed a hand against the stores that lined the wet sidewalk and righted himself. A half block up, he heard a taunting call.

"Hey, pretty boy!"

Not breaking his stride, Daniel felt a wave of dread sink into his gut. He turned his head, not surprised to see who was calling him—the muscle-head who had been bothering Mary. Luckily the man was alone. As much as he'd been itching for a fight earlier, Daniel didn't have the energy for this anymore.

"What'sa matter? Did the little bitch turn you down?" the man said almost cheerfully.

Daniel dropped his head, turned to face the man. "Excuse me?" he said, his voice sounding as weary as he felt.

The man jeered at him some more, made some more rude comments that Daniel scarcely registered. Suddenly, the man's fist swung at him. Daniel dodged the blow. Instinctively swung back. Felt his knuckles connect. Felt the skin break. Felt a hard crack to his jaw, felt his lip split against his teeth. Felt the blood spill into his mouth. Tasted it.

The anger that Daniel thought had dissolved in a haze of alcohol and unsated hormones rose to the surface, and he found himself becoming unhinged. The fury encapsulating him until everything was a blur of rage and pain. He smashed his fists against his loss and pain. Slammed his balled-up hands against unending injustice, against exploding silence, against the humiliation of impotence to stop his wife's pain. Struck out against self-hatred, against despair, against hopelessness. Again and again and again his fists rained down on the man, a storm of devastation and hurt.

He stopped long past the time when the fight was over, when he heard a muffled cry. Looked down at the man on his hands and knees.

Daniel stared wide-eyed at the blood dripping onto the pavement from the man's face. Daniel's heart pounded almost painfully in his chest, and the only sounds in the blackness were the rasping of each of their breaths and the softly falling rain.

The man staggered to his feet, hand pressed to his shattered nose, and stumbling, he retreated, his other hand held out in surrender.

Daniel fought to calm down, to will his racing heart to slow, his muscles trembling from the surge of adrenaline. Turning his back on the man, Daniel nearly lost his balance and continued half-walking, half-stumbling in the same direction he had started.

He'd made it another half-block when his stomach finally rebelled, as he'd expected it to. He fell to his knees, hunched over and vomited and couldn't stop even when there was nothing left to bring up. When the dry heaves finally dissipated, he held still a moment, trying to catch his breath. When he thought he could stand without falling over again, he pulled his shuddering body to a wobbly upright position. He wiped the blood and a trail of saliva from his chin with his sleeve. The rest of his face was wet with sweat and rain.

Staggering a few more steps, unsure which direction led to home, he rounded the first corner he came to simply because there was light coming from the streetlamps and dimly lit, closed restaurants and shops. He saw a payphone on the opposite corner, and without thinking why, he headed for it.

Stumbling into the cramped phone booth, he couldn't find any change in his pockets, couldn't even remember how much change he needed. He pressed the zero on the keypad, punched a sequence of numbers without having to think about them, so ingrained in his memory were they. His vision was strangely blurred. He raised his hand to adjust his glasses and found them missing. He looked down at the phone booth floor for them, paused to press the number '1' for a collect call when prompted by the operator. When the hollow-sounding recorded voice asked him to state his name, Daniel started to speak, but couldn't find his voice. He swallowed hard, then stammered out what he hoped were the appropriate syllables.

As he listened to the phone ring once, again, then three more times, he punched his bruised fist over and over against the muddy Plexiglas of the booth. The pain from the impact on his knuckles was strangely distant, muted. At the start of the sixth ring, he was about to hang up, then heard a click, a breathless curse, and finally an answer.

"Yeah?" Jack's voice nearly shouted, none too be happy to be woken up god only knew when.

The recorded operator informed Jack that he had a collect call, and played back Daniel's shaky sounding voice.

"Yes!" Jack said, accepting the charges, and Daniel sagged against the booth, suddenly too tired to support his own weight.

"J… Jack?" Daniel managed to choke out.

"Daniel?" Jack sounded both incredulous and relieved.

Daniel nodded, knocked his forehead against the glass door, no longer able to process the wave of pain that crashed through his skull. "Yeah. It… it's me."

"Jesus! Daniel, I've been calling you half the damned night! Where the _hell_ are you?"

Daniel looked around and realized he was lost. "I… I'm not sure," he said, then let out an odd sounding laugh. No, it wasn't a laugh, more of a sob, really. When had he started crying? He held his breath, held back another sob, furious with himself for crying like some scared kid calling for his dad, or big brother to come save him.

"You okay?" Jack's voice said, speaking in that slow voice he used on Daniel only when he was sick or about to lose it. "You sound kind of… out of it."

"I… I was in a fight. I… I don't… I don't…" Daniel pushed himself tight into the cold corner of metal and Plexiglas, slid to a crouch and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Can you drive?"

"I w-walked here." Daniel pulled his knees tighter to his chest and he couldn't stop shaking.

"You want me to come pick you up?" Jack asked, but already rushing through his room for clothes and the keys to his truck.

"I'm not… sure where I am."

"Okay. That's okay."

"I didn't mean it, Jack," Daniel whispered, swiping his hand over his face, covering his mouth. His lip was still bleeding, and he scrubbed the blood away, trying to erase what he had done.

"What didn't you mean, Daniel?" Jack asked, pulling his jacket on.

"He didn't know I could fight. _I_ didn't know I could fight like that." Daniel dropped his head back against the window with a thump, and felt a wickedly irrational laugh bubbling up inside him. "I guess all those years of fighting Ra and the G-"

"Daniel, don't say another word. Do you hear me?" Jack warned, pointing as if Daniel were in front of him. "Come on! Hold it together for a minute, would ya? Now, look around. What do you see?"

Daniel gulped in a deep breath, wiped the tears from his face with a shaking, bloodstained hand and tried to concentrate. He noticed the street sign and could make out the name if he squinted hard. "Fifth and Oak," he said, after a moment.

"Fifth and Oak. Got it!" Jack said, stepping out his door and locking it behind him. "I'll be right there," he added in gentler tone. Daniel could hear keys jangling, and Jack's voice was muffled as if he'd tucked the cell phone under his chin. "Just stay where you are, all right? Keep talking to me."

Daniel rolled his head against the hard metal edge, squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm not going anywhere. I don't have anywhere to go." And as he said it, as he realized the truth in it, he began to cry with a renewed urgency, and he couldn't stop. Just like he'd feared, once he'd started crying, he couldn't stop.

"Daniel, it's gonna be all right," Jack said, his voice coming through a faint hiss of static. He started up his truck, maintaining a steady stream of reassurances to his friend even as he tore out of his driveway and toward the freeway. "I'm gonna pick you up, take you back to my place, and you're staying put for a few days, and you're gonna let me help you through this."

Daniel didn't answer. He didn't want to answer because his throat was too tight from his tears, and all he could taste in his mouth was blood, and everything hurt so fucking much, and he just wanted it to stop. He heard his quiet sobs echoing around him, but then Jack's voice sounded again, and he didn't feel so alone anymore.

"It's gonna be okay, Danny. I know it doesn't feel like that right now, but it will get better," Jack told him. "You just gotta hold on until I get there, okay?"

"Okay," Daniel whispered. Jack continued to talk to him, kept telling him to hang in there. Like he had any other choice. He was already hanging on by his fingernails. Barely. Daniel tried to let the sound of Jack's voice distract him. The voice was muffled in the fog in Daniel's head, but if he didn't think of anything else, he could almost focus on it, almost let it comfort him.

It was cold in the tiny, cramped space of the booth. There was only room enough for Daniel's body, Jack's voice, and a grief that poured over it all, soaking through him in places even the alcohol and the rain hadn't been able to touch. And that grief became all encompassing. Daniel could no longer deny it the same way he couldn't deny himself oxygen or the need to breathe.

A subsequent wave of despair crashed over him, surprising him. He thought he wasn't capable of despair anymore, but there it was, overwhelming him, overtaking every ounce of numbness he had fought so hard to attain tonight. He could no longer focus on anything but the grief, and Jack's voice faded to a distant hum. The tears continued to flow and they were hot as they rolled down Daniel's chilled face. His eyelids were too heavy to keep open so he let them close, shutting everything out. He felt himself drifting, his body becoming heavy with what he hoped was the onset of unconsciousness.

He could still hear Jack talking to him, but his friend's voice no longer had the power to offer him any comfort. Nothing did, so Daniel instead listened to the rain drumming on the metal roof and he simply waited. Waited for Jack, and hoped that in the time it took Jack to come get him, oblivion would do what the alcohol had failed to do, and make it so that nothing mattered anymore.

That was one hope he still had left.

* * *

tbc 


	2. Chapter 2: Shattered Dreams pt 1

Shattered Dreams part 1

* * *

"Daniel?"

Daniel vacillated between the present and the past; between a torrent of fists and the closing of her eyes.

"Daniel."

Between the smoky depths of a half-filled glass and a sloshing jug of Abydonian wine, he rode the waves of what was and what is, and in the trough of that wave he wept.

"Daniel!"

His eyes flashed open, his head pulled away from the aluminum corner of the phone booth. The alcohol flooding his veins dampened each puff of air. His hazy vision rose to the direction of the voice, and there behind the scratched Plexiglas was a figure of a man, staring at him. Somehow he knew his face.

"Jack?" he asked, or maybe he just thought the question.

"Daniel?" Jack said, tapping on the wet glass. "You with me?"

Daniel closed his eyes again, not to drift, but to attempt to clear his thoughts.

"Where am I?" he asked the squalid air.

"Daniel, time to go," Jack said, raising his voice in order for Daniel to hear him.

Daniel pulled his hand across his face, smearing half-dried blood over his chin. He swallowed the spit gathering at the back of his throat, opened his eyes and slowly began to recognize the sight of blood swathed across his soiled palm. He held his hand closer to his eyes, his vision distorted from the drink, made worse by the absence of his glasses.

"I think I cut myself," he said, blinking, hoping to clear his blurred vision.

Jack balled up his hand and rapped on the window. "Come on, Daniel. Let's go."

The tight acoustics of the booth amplified the crashing noise, and Daniel's muted attention quickly came into focus. He squinted his eyes and saw, for the first time, perhaps the one person he didn't want to see. Not like this. Even in his drunkenness, Daniel felt the bristle of shame scatter through him and he felt his resistance crumbling again. His head bobbled, his lips tightened, and his hand waved Jack away.

"Leave me alone," he cried, the words faltering over anesthetized lips. The phone's receiver dangled near his face, and as he watched its listless rocking back and forth, Daniel became dizzy. "I don't want you here."

Jack scanned the streets, hoping there were no witnesses to Daniel's situation. The shroud of Plexiglas deadened the sound coming from inside, so Jack couldn't hear Daniel's slurred demands, not that he really cared anyhow. Out late, in the cold rain, recovering a drunken teammate—none of these things spelled compassion in Jack.

"Listen, Daniel, come on out. I'll take you home," Jack said.

Daniel punched his elbow into the side of the booth and yelled, "Go away!"

Somewhat taken aback by Daniel's vehemence, Jack blinked. Then he grabbed the side of the booth, gave it as much of a shake as he could, and yelled back, "Ya should have thought of that before you called me, ya son of a…" One more good shake in lieu of the profanity.

"I di'n't call you," Daniel insisted, closing his eyes, turning once again to the corner.

"Of course you didn't. I just happened to be scouting phone booths at O-dark-hundred and found you. How the hell do you think I got here, Daniel?" he growled, searching for the door, knowing full well his question wouldn't reach Daniel's inebriated ear. He rounded the side of the phone booth and couldn't for the life of him figure out how Daniel had been able to wedge himself into the confined space so tightly. These booths were hardly big enough for a grown man to stand in, much less puddle up on the floor.

"Listen, Daniel, you're gonna have to stand up," Jack said, trying to force open the door without somehow slicing Daniel in half.

"It's just too hard," Daniel sighed, incomprehensibly commenting on his inner turmoil. His hands pooled in his lap. "I can't do it anymore."

"You're gonna have to," Jack told him, searching the door's hinges for a way to extricate his friend. "Listen, the way I see it, we have two options: you can stand up and let me open the door, or I can tip this thing over. Even in your gin-soaked condition you can see that option one is the better choice."

"I can't," Daniel mumbled. His eyes, red and puffy, opened, and he looked up at Jack through the refracting light, recognizing that face once again. "Jack?"

"Yeah, Daniel. It's me." Jack grasped hold of the side of the booth and ascertained how much leverage he was going to need in order to topple the thing. He figured it was somewhere on the order of one good shove and the assistance of Teal'c. Otherwise, they were screwed unless Daniel could get off the damn floor. "Look, buddy, pal, you're gonna have to get up. So…get up. One, two, three, and up we go! Up! Just…Daniel, you have to get off your ass."

"I don't…I don't feel that well," Daniel muttered, his fingers trailing against the bumpy aluminum wall.

"Yeah, well, go figure," Jack said, crouching down and pushing the door open as far as it would go, and when he got a look at Daniel from that level, he once again could see that Daniel was far less drunk than a pile of emotional wreckage. The pungent stench of stale liquor only added to the pathetic image.

"Listen, Daniel, I can't help you unless you can get to your feet. Daniel," he said, reaching inside the cramped space to offer Daniel his open hand, "let me help."

Daniel's eyes slid from the hand to the half-obscured face through the crack of the door. He inhaled sharply, and his lower lip began to tremble. Why wouldn't it all just go away, he wondered? He closed his eyes against the vertigo, against the churning of his stomach and the breaking of his heart. "It's too hard. I just…I can't do it."

"Yes, you can," Jack said, sending all his patience and compassion through the small opening. "All you have to do is take my hand, okay? Come on, Danny. Take it."

"Danny," he whispered, as if that name from his childhood coaxed his rational mind awake and his eyes to open. "Jack?"

"Yeah. How ya feel about giving me your hand?"

Daniel stared at the hand on his knee and pulled his own crumpled and bloodied right hand from his lap, giving it with a flop to Jack.

"Good," Jack said, nodding while he kept watch on Daniel.

Daniel blinked, staring at the two joined hands. A distant throb of agony beat inside his body and it seemed to originate in his hand, but he couldn't figure out why. No more pain, he begged, finding his eyes shutting once again, this time in surrender to that omnipotent feeling of loss. "It hurts, Jack."

Jack peered through the wedged door at Daniel's right hand—raw knuckles, bleeding and meaty, and the top of it, raised and swollen. "Yeah, it looks like it does." Jack pressed his shoulder into the opening a little farther and grabbed Daniel by the wrist.

"It…it's just…I can't make the pain go away," Daniel said, his voice grainy with resignation.

"Yeah, well, broken bones have a way of doing that," Jack said, holding tight to his friend, who, much to Jack's relief, was beginning to stand. "Up and at 'em. Here we go."

The arm went first, the lax shoulder followed, and before Daniel realized it, he was somehow on his feet. Jack didn't for a moment release Daniel's wrist, but opened the phone booth's door, hung up the receiver, and pulled his friend from its confines.

"Okay, good." Jack moved slowly, wrapping his arm around Daniel's back, holding the bloody hand upright, pressing it gently against Daniel's rain-soaked wool sweater. "Let's go home."

With slow, stumbling footing, the two made their way to Jack's truck. Jack steadied Daniel against the side and opened the passenger door for him.

"Watch yourself." Jack tucked Daniel's head into the cab, his hair matted and wet from rain and sweat. Daniel lumbered into the truck, dragged in his left foot, let Jack shove the right one in, and gave into the heaviness of his skull. It fell forward, his chin to his chest, both hands heaped in his lap. One deep breath, and his head rose, only to fall again with a sob.

"I don't want this," he whispered, tears cascading down and off his nose, onto his hands.

"What's that?" Jack asked, climbing behind the wheel and fastening his seat belt.

"I can't do it," Daniel sobbed, his hand lifting and then falling against his thigh.

"Okay. So, what? You need me to…"

"It's just, it hurts too much," Daniel said, pressing his head into the headrest, blindly searching the darkness.

"Well, okay," Jack muttered, reaching across Daniel to grab hold of his seat belt. "Your gonna have to…um. I'll do it," he said, lifting Daniel's left arm in order to click the belt in. He gave the shoulder harness a good yank and shrugged. "Good enough, I guess."

Daniel's face turned to the side window, and sporadic bursts of air clouded the cold glass. His head drooped, too heavy to hold up, and he rested his cheek against the cold glass, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to tune everything out again. Tune out Jack, the relentless throbbing ache in his right hand, the churning in his stomach, the scattered, confused images rambling in his head. Everything. The rain drummed a distant staccato on the roof of the truck, so he listened to that strangely soothing sound again.  
That was better. All he had to do was listen to that sound, and it would make everything go away again.

"Daniel," Jack said, grasping hold of his friend's shoulder. When there was no response, Jack touched the back of Daniel's head, grimaced and started the truck. Somehow he knew the rest of the night would be as silent as forming ice.

For the most part, it was. Jack drove home in the quiet of the despairing night, helped Daniel out of the truck and into the house, and sat him down on the edge of the bed. Without saying a word, because there was no need and because Daniel's eyes were heavy with exhaustion, Jack pulled the sweater, wet and ripe with perspired alcohol, over Daniel's head, followed by a stained and damp t-shirt. Daniel sat slumped over, his hands draped between his knees. Occasionally, one hand would reach up and clumsily rub at closed, swollen eyes. Every few moments, a tear would drip onto his hands, and he'd slowly rub the moisture into his damp jeans. Jack yanked off Daniel's shoes, stripped off his socks, and examined the broken hand, the inflammation extending up Daniel's wrist. Jack sucked in a breath between his teeth, knowing that Daniel would surely feel it in the morning.

But not now. Now, Daniel felt nothing. Now, Daniel was exhausted, empty, a shell hardly able to maintain form. His mind at last void of images and self-incriminations. His soul quieted, Daniel drifted away from pain and away from that place where all hope was ripped away. Finally, a reprieve from the sober hours when it was the darkest, when there were only two questions: why, and where's my drink?

Jack paused for a moment to scratch his ear and wonder how one asked another man who happened to be sitting on his bed to remove his pants, but realized Daniel was far too drunk to do it and more than likely wouldn't remember if Jack just took the initiative and did it himself. So, with one gentle shove, Daniel fell backwards onto the bed, and Jack swiftly removed the sodden jeans. He watched Daniel's expression—one moment flaccid, mouth slack, eyes languishing under the weight of Scotch, and the next screwing up as if tears were painfully surfacing, only to be washed away with a deep breath and a groan.

"Daniel," Jack said, taking hold of Daniel's good hand, "sit up. Here we go." He pulled Daniel to a slouch, naked and cold, and then to his feet, and into the bathroom.

"Not that I don't love this whole bonding experience, Daniel, but you stink." With Daniel's arm draped over his shoulder, Jack reached into the shower, as much to hold his head away from Daniel's pungent aroma as to turn on the water. Daniel was his friend, probably one of the best friends he had ever had, but even so there was no way Jack was going to let his friend sleep between relatively clean sheets smelling as badly as he did. Friendship extended great bounds, but where body odor, stale alcohol and grime were concerned, Jack had his limits.

When the water warmed enough, Jack eased Daniel into the shower, propped him up against the wall, under the showerhead, and let fly a few expletives when Daniel began to slide down the wall. Jack felt fairly certain he'd be able to explain away Daniel's broken hand, but there was no way he'd be able to explain a closed-head injury received while taking a shower at Jack's house. Jack aided Daniel's descent to the shower floor, cussing under his breath the entire way while his clothes were soaked through to the skin and his back spasmed under the weight of maintaining his own balance as well as Daniel's.

Daniel tented his knees, his hands slung across the back of his neck, while the water rained down across his body. If tears slid across his face, they were caught up in the river of warmth pouring over his head.

For fifteen minutes Jack let Daniel wallow under the constant stream. For fifteen minutes the colonel sat on the closed seat of the commode, listening to the muffled sobs, the whispered name of a woman lost to the desert sand. Fifteen minutes, until the only sound coming from the shower was the softly pelting water, and the only movement was the listless crawl of the steam rising above.

"Daniel?" Jack said from his perch next to the sink. "Daniel, you done?" He slid open one half of the glass door and found Daniel leaning against the wet tile, soundly asleep. Jack turned off the water and appraised the situation: one hundred and eighty pounds of drunkenness lumped on the bottom of his shower, and one fifty-year old back to lift it out. Jack brushed a hand across his jowl and considered his possibilities.

"Something tells me you've slept in worse places," he muttered, removing the glass doors, one at a time. "See, the beauty of this plan, Daniel," Jack said, stepping to the linen closet where he took out four towels, two pillows and a blanket, "is that if you should feel like puking, all I have to do is hose you down." Jack dropped the pillows and blanket on the ground, set three of the towels on the sink, and used the other to dry Daniel's hair. For his part, Daniel obliged, only once opening his eyes.

"Sorry. The Air Force forgot to issue me a new hair dryer," Jack told him, working the towel down Daniel's limp arms and back. Using the same towel, Jack dried the tub floor under Daniel's acquiescent body. When that towel was thoroughly damp, Jack grabbed a second towel, laid it out, and propped the two pillows at the end of the tub. "Here we go, sleeping beauty," Jack said, lowering Daniel's head and right shoulder onto the dry towel and pillows. He positioned Daniel's swollen hand on top of his left arm, and then went about the inauspicious task of towel-drying his friend's lower half.

"I swear to God, Daniel, if you even twitch while I'm doing this," Jack warned his unconscious friend. Grimacing, Jack ran the towel over Daniel's legs, his hips, and, with a flurry of expletives, across his groin. Lifting one dead-weight leg at a time, Jack dried the tub and shoved the last towel under Daniel's hip. With one final flourish, Jack threw the used towel onto the first towel, unfurled the wool blanket, and said a prayer that Daniel was allergic to wool. And then he took it back. With his luck, Daniel would go into anaphylactic shock over an allergy to wool, and that would leave Jack in the brigade with his only defense being, "How was I supposed to know he was allergic to lanolin?"

"Some day, Daniel, I don't know when, but some day you're going to make this all right by me," Jack said, tucking the blanket around Daniel's sleeping body, leaving his broken hand out.

Taking one more glance at his resting friend before going to the kitchen for a bag of ice, Jack said, "If the fight didn't leave you sore, this will."

Jack scuffed his way into the kitchen, massaging the rigid cables in his back. He grabbed a Ziploc bag and filled it with ice, then grabbed a beer, and returned to the bathroom. Passing the medicine cabinet, Jack sought out and found an old Ace bandage. He knelt down next to the tub, yanked the washcloth from the towel bar in the shower, placed it over Daniel's hand.

"Any other time I'd warn you that this was gonna hurt, but I'm thinkin' you won't exactly feel this, so…" Jack positioned the ice bag on Daniel's hand, and wrapped the two with the elastic bandage. Satisfied with his work and the fact that the injured area was receiving much needed ice, Jack sat back against the wall and opened his beer.

"Danny, Danny, Danny." Jack rubbed his tired eyes, the bottle of beer cantilevered over his knee. "What the hell's going on with you?"

---SG1---

Jack hit the send button on his phone, leaned up against his kitchen counter and kind of hoped he'd reach one of the nurses. Then he could leave a message. Then he wouldn't have to answer any questions. Then he could scuttle away from the phone like it was a bomb waiting to go off.

"Colonel?" Janet Fraiser said, lifting the phone.

"Shit," Jack muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Hey, Doc! How ya doin'?" Jack crowed, pinching the bridge of his nose, knowing full well that the SGC's CMO was going to rip him a new one for this latest exploit. And then Jack would rip one for Daniel…

"I'm fine, sir, thank you for asking," came the answer, oozing with incredulity. "What can I do for you, Colonel?"

Jack waffled for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the next, and then, in a gust of expelled air, said, "Okay, I know the routine is to deny that I need anything, but I didn't get enough sleep last night to follow the script, so here's the thing: Do you still have privileges at Cedar Springs Hospital in town?"

"Yes. Why?"

Jack could just picture her—arms folded across her white lab coat, her lips pursed, her stare icy under a gathered brow. "Well, as it turns out, I found a certain friend of ours last night, and in his present condition I don't think bringing him to the infirmary would be such a good idea."

"How bad is it?"

"Busted hand. Maybe a cracked jaw. The good news is his liver has been cleaned and sterilized."

There was a silence on the other end, and Jack felt his head begin to pound. He held the phone away from his ear and pinched shut his eyes, waiting for the barrage. When there was nothing but quiet, Jack opened one eye and used it to peek at the phone. With great reservations, he brought the phone to his face, and said, "You still there?"

"I'm here," Janet said. "Can you bring him to Cedar Springs by…1300 hours? I can't get out of here any sooner than that. And God knows what I'm going to tell General Hammond. Colonel, this is-"

"You're a peach, Doc. In fact, you're a bushel of peaches. 1300 hours. Perfect! My friend and I will meet you there."

"I could just-"

"Yeah, I know the feeling, Doc. See ya in a bit," Jack said, and slapped shut his phone. One problem solved, ten more to deal with, he thought. But first, a cup of coffee. He grabbed a mug from the shelf, took a few steps to his refrigerator to grab the milk, and returned to the counter. That's when the shadow of a shuffling image caught his eye. Jack stood very still for a moment while he watched his friend trudge into the kitchen, Daniel's pride and body bruised and aching. Jack pulled a second mug down, poured hot coffee into both and met Daniel at the table.

Dressed in a pair of Jack's Air Force sweatpants and a Cub's t-shirt, Daniel held his right hand closely to his chest, slowly lowered his stiff and aching body into the chair.

Jack placed the cup of coffee in front of Daniel, set his own mug down across from him, and pulled a new Ziploc from the box next to the refrigerator. Filling it with ice, Jack glanced back at Daniel, who sat silent, disheveled, his left hand knotted in his hair.

"How about some toast?" he asked, which was met by a distinct silence. Jack tossed the bag of ice onto the counter with a thunk, slid two pieces of bread into the toaster, and drummed his fingers on the counter. "Toast it is, then."

Jack screwed his lips up and thought about all his own personal "morning afters," when all he wanted was to be left alone until the settings in his brain dialed down—the over-amplified hearing, the acute perception of light, the heightened sense of smell and hearing. Yeah, he had had a few of those mornings, so he gazed out his kitchen window and allowed Daniel a moment to settle himself, take a few sips of coffee. When the bread popped up, toasted and hot, Jack slathered it with butter. He licked his fingers, slid a plate out of the cupboard, and dropped the toast onto it.

"Eat," Jack said, pushing the plate in front of Daniel.

Daniel, his hand pressed into his eye, gave the toast one look and covered both eyes.

"I see you found the clothes I left out for you," said Jack, returning to the counter to grab the bag of ice. "Hope you didn't mind the sleeping arrangements." Jack took a seat across from Daniel and tossed the bag of ice to him, displacing the plate of toast, which earned him an immediate glower from Daniel.

"It's for your hand, Cassius," Jack said, lifting his coffee to his mouth.

Daniel tightened his lips, angered by Jack's impertinence, and only then realized the extent of the injuries to his face. A sizzle of pain arced through his jaw, and he touched his fingers to his lower lip, pulling them away to find a trace of blood.

"You want another bag of ice for your mouth?" Jack asked.

Daniel ran his thumb across his eyelid, his head pounding directly behind. He ground his teeth together, bit back on his nausea, and said, "No."

Jack put his cup down and assessed his friend—probably still drunk, from the look of it, more than likely a couple chipped teeth, only now feeling the incredible pain in his obviously broken hand. It was a pitiful sight, and Jack had to feel sorry for the guy. Had the strangest feeling that he should maybe even sit with Daniel a while and let him pour out his guts to him. But then again…

"I've got your day all planned out," Jack said, pushing himself out of his chair to help Daniel put the ice on that hand. When Daniel yanked his shoulder back in protest, the blazing agony that shot through his arm left him breathless. Jack waited a moment, and then gently as possible lowered the bag of ice onto the purple, swollen hand. Daniel winced and moaned. "Leave it there," Jack ordered, his tone brooking no room for argument.

Jack looked back at Daniel, just once, to make sure he was heeding Jack's order, and then he went on. "In an hour, after you've ingested something other than alcohol, we're going to meet Doc Fraiser at Cedar Springs Hospital, where, under the name of Mike Tyson, you will be admitted and treated for an injury sustained while putting up drywall. Don't ask. It's for your benefit, and if the staff at Cedar Springs thinks you're perhaps the worst home renovation guy in all of Colorado, then so be it. That's better than what they'd say if I carted your drunken carcass into the base," Jack said, his voice leaning toward anger. He didn't want to be angry, but Daniel had placed himself in a very dangerous position. Very dangerous. Jack raked his hand through his hair and started again. "Going on. After your hand is placed in a good, solid, uncomfortable cast and your lip is sewn up, we're coming back here, where you have a choice: you can take a long nap and then explain what's going on in that head of yours, or you can straight away tell me what's going on in that head of yours."

Daniel ripped at the hair on the back of his head, his anger in equal proportion with his shame. "It's none of your business."

"Oh, you made it my business when you called me collect in the middle of the night to pick up your sorry ass," Jack told him, leaning across the table. "And by the way, have ya _heard_ of 1-800-Dial ATT?"

Daniel's eyes flew open and stared at Jack, his mouth trembling, incoherence driving his expression.

"Kind of forgot that part, huh?" Jack asked, softening his tone. Jack knew what it was like to wake up in an unfamiliar place, woozy from the night before, trying desperately to pry any recollection of the night's activities from his acrid and foaming memory. He thought Daniel was smarter than that. At least he hoped Daniel was. "How ya feelin' now?"

"I'm fine," Daniel muttered, resting his forehead in his hand.

"Yeah, you look it. How do you think the other guy feels?"

Daniel glanced up, let Jack's question fully hit him, and then lifted his head completely. "What?"

"You were in a fight, Daniel," Jack said. "You don't remember?"

Daniel shook his head, pain and fear washing over him. He could remember bits of pieces of the night before, like shattered reflections in a broken mirror. If he tried to piece those remnants together, he knew it would be too much for him to take in, so he didn't try. He set his mouth in a tight line, and winced at the nearly forgotten sting in his lip. Rubbing his hand gingerly over his eyes, so he wouldn't have to look at Jack, he said, "It's all a little…vague."

"Can't think why. Why do you think that is, Daniel?" Jack questioned, taunting the man across the table. "Ah, but wait. I'm getting ahead of myself. The Q&A section of our day doesn't come until later. So many things to ask. I can hardly wait. The suspense is killing me."

"Don't you think you're laying on the sarcasm a little thick, Jack?" Daniel asked, glaring at the man across the table.

"Probably. Definitely. But, see, by laying on the sarcasm I refrain from laying into you, Daniel. And again, I'm getting ahead of myself. All in good time, my friend. All in good time."

But Daniel was finished answering questions. His own mind swirled with half-materialized memories, hazy images and scatterings of conversations. What was more, he cursed his drunken self for having called Jack. God, if he'd just held it together, just…reached that magic number of drinks and then stopped, he wouldn't be in Jack's dining room, having to answer for his behavior.

Daniel knew he'd been doing a pretty good impression of someone coping relatively well under the circumstances, and here he'd blown it with one stupid phone call, one pathetic moment of weakness. Fine, if Jack wanted to talk about it, they would. When Daniel could think clearly again, that is, and then he could convince Jack that the previous night had merely been a momentary lapse of judgment. After all, no one could blame a guy for losing it a little after everything that had happened. If anyone could understand that, it would be Jack.

That was it—he'd play on Jack's sympathies.

And then he resolved to be more careful. He had enough sense to know that Jack's sympathies would only work for so long.

He'd just have to be more careful from now on, that's all.

* * *

tbc 


	3. Shattered Dreams pt 2

Shattered Dreams part 2

* * *

Jack waited in the living room, surfing through the channels, while Daniel readied himself for their trip to the hospital. Ten minutes went by, and Jack found himself mildly involved in a show on deer rutting. Mildly. Fifteen minutes went by, and Jack found himself completely involved in Daffy Duck's rendition of Robin Hood, complete with every "Ha, ho, hee, thrust, parry…"

When Daniel slogged into the room, his hand throbbing, his mouth spiking with pain, Jack didn't see him, but instead recited along with Daffy, "Actually, it's my buck and a quarter staff, but I'm not tellin' him." It annoyed Daniel to no end that Jack found humor in such insipidness, especially when he had made such a production out of their proposed schedule. Daniel had a moment to put together an escape route, but just when he had added the final leg of his journey to freedom, Jack mumbled something about, "If you can't fight 'em, join 'em." Daniel shifted his weight onto his back foot and glowered at Jack.

"You ready?" Jack asked, jumping from his seat and clicking off the TV.

Daniel didn't answer him, nor felt any compunction in the least about completely ignoring Jack. He pivoted, marched toward the door, and realized he had no idea where his coat might be.

And Jack knew it. It wasn't that he wanted to watch Daniel squirm, not entirely. It was that he wanted Daniel to understand the magnitude of how stupid he had been the night before. Being able to stand by while Daniel fought a battle of wills of whether or not to ask Jack where his coat was turned out to be the lagniappe that made the day all the better.

Daniel ran his tongue across his lip, the split held together by a butterfly bandage he had allowed Jack to place there, but only after a terse moment. Just another thing he had had to ask Jack to do for him, and he hated to be beholden to Jack. Daniel shook his head, angry beyond words that he had to, yet again, ask Jack for something else--to give him his coat. And when he did get his coat back, he hoped to God his glasses would be in the pocket.

"Well, this has been fun," Jack finally said, reaching into his hallway closet, "but we have an appointment, and you know how Fraiser gets when you keep her waiting." He handed Daniel a down parka.

"That's not my coat," Daniel told him, refusing to make eye contact.

"You're right, but your coat and all your clothes are flammable and therefore soaking in the utility sink in my basement." Jack thrust the parka into Daniel's good hand and stepped past him. "Put it on. Let's go."

Those were the last words spoken for 28.5 miles.

Janet Fraiser was waiting in the emergency room entrance when they arrived, looking proper and pissed in scrubs and a white lab coat. She sipped her coffee in an adjacent bay while Daniel was given the standard physical assessment in triage and answered the obligatory questions in patient registration. When his pseudonym and his false report of his injuries were logged into the computer, Janet took his paperwork, gave him a quick once-over, and told Jack he could wait down the hall, and that she would keep him informed.

Happy to oblige and hoping to find a TV in the waiting room, Jack sauntered off.

It was the first time in weeks that Daniel wished Jack would have stayed.

"So, Daniel," Janet crooned, striding through the twisted hallway, "want to fill me in?"

"I broke my hand," Daniel told her, following a full stride behind the physician.

"And the laceration to your lip?" she asked, flipping his chart, skimming his vital signs.

"Yeah, there's that, too," was all he was willing to offer.

She pulled into a room, didn't look to see if Daniel had followed her in, sat on the swivel stool, and said, "You know the routine."

He did. He removed the parka, with slow, deliberate precision, and then climbed onto the white examination table and waited for the accusations and questions to begin.

But there were none, other than, "Does it hurt when I do this?" and "Any sensitivity to cold or hot?" He was almost relieved. Maybe she didn't know the truth. Maybe she respected his privacy.

When the nurse arrived, Janet rolled out the assorted orders, including X-rays to his arm and jaw, and then she left him, telling him she'd be back when the films were developed.

"Why don't you get some rest while you wait to go down to radiology?" she said, patting his shoulder, and just as calmly, she left.

Once outside Daniel's room, Janet ripped off her gloves, slammed them into the bio-waste container, and went in search of Jack O'Neill. She had questions. Boy, did she have questions.

"It doesn't work," Jack informed his fellow waiting room dwellers, pointing to the Revco Food Dehydrator. "And the return policy sucks."

"Ahem," Janet voiced at the door.

Jack stepped out into the hall where Janet had gone, and said, "So?"

"He's drunk," she announced, twining her arms across her chest.

"Yeah, I kinda noticed that," Jack said. "You should have seen him ten hours ago. How is he otherwise?"

"His hand is broken, and I put two stitches in his lip. He's going to need to see his dentist because I think he has a cracked tooth," she said, leaning her shoulder into the wall.

"So, his hand: it _is_ broken," Jack said, wincing.

"My guess is it's broken in three places." She let out a heavy sigh and silently her aggravation with Daniel. "Colonel, if he's drunk I can't properly sedate him in order to set his hand."

"So, what? If he's that drunk, he won't feel it, right?" he said, not seeing the problem. "Serves him right, anyhow. When he called, I was having this amazing dream about…"

"I'm sure I don't need to hear the rest of his story," she said, placing her hand up between them, hoping to halt the progress of his tale. "His blood alcohol is twice the legal limit. If his last drink was ten hours ago, the amount of alcohol he ingested is staggering. Now would be a very good time to tell me what the hell happened."

"All I know is there was a fight. Daniel called me up—collect, by the way—pretty much your cliché drunk, saying something about how the other guy didn't know he could fight. It was fairly pathetic." Jack smirked and tossed his hand up near his face. "That's all the information I have. I had a couple buddies check the police records from last night and this morning in case Daniel's sparring partner filed a report, but so far it's clean."

"I think there are bigger issues here than we know," she said, rubbing her eyes.

"Yeah, I think so, too," Jack agreed. "Like my phone bill next month. You think I can expense report that? Maybe it's tax deductible."

Janet rolled her eyes and disregarded his divergent train of thought. "Look, I'm going to give him some light analgesics. I don't want him driving, though. Hell, he shouldn't have been drinking given his neurological trauma from the…you know," she said, glancing furtively around the hall. "I'm placing him in your care, Colonel. At least for the next twenty-four hours."

"Yeah, well, that's what I figured." Jack stroked his hand across his neck, sore from sitting in the bathroom most of the night, making sure Daniel kept breathing.

"Okay, then. I'm going to check on his lab reports. I'll call you when we're done," she said, giving his elbow a gentle squeeze.

"Hey, Doc, we're going to keep this on the QT, right?" Jack said, reaching out to place his warm hand on her shoulder.

Janet sighed and said, "No one will ever know Mike Tyson was here."

"I-"

"Don't say you owe me, because your tab is miles long," she told him in her wake.

Jack nodded his head, and wondered if maybe she'd like The Amazing Pasta Pot in a show of his appreciation.

---SG1---

"Thanks, Doc," Jack said, folding the discharge papers in half and then half again.

"You're welcome," Janet said. She pressed her hands into her lab coat and gave Daniel one last visual assessment. "You'll call your dentist, right?"

Daniel nodded and pulled the parka onto his shoulder. When Jack started to help him, Daniel yanked the coat out of Jack's grip. The colonel threw his hands up in the air and took two steps back, sharing a knowing look with Janet.

"Daniel," she said, crossing her arms, leveling him with her eyes, "I want you to call me if you have any discomfort. The analgesic I prescribed isn't very strong, but because of your head trauma, I can't give you anything stronger. However, I can change the prescription, but only if you call me." She waited for his response, any response. When he remained steadfastly silent, she shifted her weight onto one leg and glared at him. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes," he all but whispered, casting his attention to his shoes.

"Okay, but do you understand?" she said.

Daniel slid his good arm through his sleeve and fought back the urge to tell Janet to go to hell. Instead, he simply said, "I suppose," and fought to pull the second half of the coat onto his shoulder, cloaking his hand, cocooned within a sling.

"He'll call," Jack said, reaching for the door.

"I hope so." Janet handed Daniel three packets of sample drugs, gathered up his chart, and patted Jack's arm when she passed to leave the room.

Jack held the door open, waiting for Daniel to finish pulling on his coat. Without acknowledging Jack, Daniel slid by him and out the door, down the corridor. He punched the automatic door opener on the wall, hardly slowing his pace to wait for the doors to completely open. Once outside in the cold afternoon air, Daniel hunched his shoulders up around ears and tramped to Jack's truck.

Jack followed behind him in annoyed silence, hitting the unlock button on his remote. He watched Daniel jerk open the passenger door and pile into the truck, protecting his injured hand all the while.

Jack paused before getting into the truck, taking a moment to center himself, to rein in his anger and frustrations with Daniel. His concern. Jack took a moment to decide how he wanted to begin a conversation with Daniel, and found that he hadn't a clue, so he scratched his jowl, clucked his tongue against his cheek and raised an empty hand to the unasked and unanswerable question. Then he joined Daniel in the quiet truck.

Jack stuck the key in the ignition, started the truck and reminded Daniel to put on his seatbelt. He put the truck in reverse and tried not to let on that he knew Daniel was having trouble clicking in his seatbelt with only his left hand. If Daniel wasn't going to ask for help, well, Jack wasn't going to offer.

Once on the road, with a good forty minutes to kill before returning to Jack's, the strained silence that thickened the air inside the cab began to grate on Jack's nerves. He propped his elbow up on the door, ran his nails across his scalp, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, made obnoxious popping noises with his lips, and yet Daniel remained absolutely still.

Resolutely motionless. Stationary in the face of Jack and Janet's effrontery. Daniel's focus never left the horizon, his lips never twitched past their tight line. And even though his stomach growled and his skull pounded, his expression never once let on that he was anything but pissed off. It was easier that way.

"Let me ask you something," Jack said, disrupting the awful silence. "Your little sortie into drunken debauchery--was that a one-time deal, or is that how you've been spending your time the last couple weeks?" Daniel shifted his steely gaze out the corner of his eye. Years of military life had taught Jack that silence was, in fact, implicit confirmation of a question. The pallor of Daniel's skin—ruddy, unkempt—was explicit confirmation of its own. Jack jutted forth his lower jaw and nodded his head, keeping perfunctory attention to the road ahead.

Trees passed. Mile markers sailed by. All Daniel could see, however, was the brilliant heat of his anger—anger at being held prisoner by Jack; at being disallowed to go back to his apartment; at being injured once again. White-hot anger, boiling his blood, searing his vision, crisping the edges of his nerves. He wanted out—out of the truck, out of his life, out of it all. He wanted to be left alone to…to…to have a drink. Six, if he wanted them. Nine, if he needed them. More, if he could stay conscious long enough. He found the words "I could use a drink" creeping up the back of his throat, perched right on his lips, pressing themselves forward, but he knew better than to let them escape. No, his captivity would end soon enough, and then he would find his peace, his sanctuary. Soon enough.

"Ya know, I had a buddy in basic training," Jack said, seemingly out of the blue. In defiance, Daniel turned to stare out the side window. "Good guy. Tough as nails. The kind you'd want in a bar fight, not that you'd want to get into a bar fight. Not another bar fight, that is." Jack shot Daniel a look and found him giving the international sign for "I'm not listening." "One day there was a fire in the barracks. My buddy was caught in it and was burned over 70 of his body. Awful stuff. Anyhow, when they got him to the hospital the doctors decided to put him in a drug-induced coma for the first couple weeks, just to get him by the worst of it. I'm sure there were other medical reasons, but they're beyond me. So, two, three weeks later, they wake him up, tell him what happened. Don't get me wrong—there was still a lot of pain, but no where near the pain that he would have felt had he been awake." And then Jack stopped, switched hands on the wheel and searched his console for a pack of gum, a sort of fishing expedition for Daniel's attention, which worked.

"Is there a point to your story?" Daniel growled, refusing to change his position. The muscles in Daniel's cheeks began to jump, his eyes darted from one spot to another, never seeing anything but rancor.

"Yes, Daniel, there is, and thank you for asking," Jack said, whisking his hand through the air. "I think you're trying to drink yourself past these first couple weeks. I think that you think if you stay drunk, you'll get over that hump of the really bad pain. Tell me if I'm wrong."

Daniel flinched at Jack's words and hoped to God Jack hadn't noticed. And then he forced himself to become very still. His previous nervous motions halted, frozen, except for his hands. Uncooperative, the swollen fingers protruding from the end of the cast twitched; his unharmed hand, clutching the cuff of his coat, trembled. Jack caught a glimpse of the activity and then a glimpse of the explosive stillness in Daniel's face. Aware of Jack's scrutiny, Daniel fanned his fingers, trying to interject with a wave a feigned insouciance in an otherwise troublesome conversation. He knew his eyes were wide, snapping open and shut, and that their quick movements betrayed him when under duress, so he turned away. He'd be damned if he was going to let Jack see his overly-bright eyes, nor the rim of unshed tears held tenuously behind his lashes.

"Well?" Jack asked. "Any comments, criticisms, reaction, repudiations?"

Those words, spoken insolently, with derision, rekindled Daniel's anger, for which he was thankful. Anger was easier than the blackness of sorrow. Anger was something he could manage—and in fact, it was his anger that gave him any sense of being. Through his clenched teeth, Daniel demanded, "Shut up."

"Shut up?" Jack said, glancing sidelong at Daniel. "What? _Shut up?_ No, 'Once again, you're wrong, Jack'? No verbal lashing? Frankly, Daniel, I'm disappointed_. Shut up_?"

It was also his anger that robbed him of the ability to communicate effectively. He gnawed at his lower lip, wincing at the pain of the freshly sutured skin, wrapped his good arm around his injured hand, and could do nothing more than shake his head back and forth.

"Elucidate me—what _have_ you been doing these last two weeks?" Jack asked, furthering the chasm between them. "Because I'm getting the distinct feeling it hasn't been volunteer work."

Daniel's knee popped up and down, his broken hand throbbed inside the cast. He shook his head, communicating, if only to himself, that he wasn't going to play along. That he was finished with the cat and mouse game. That Jack had no right, not one damn right to ask him these questions, and he'd be damned if he was going to answer them, even if he could find the words.

"It won't work, you know," Jack continued, softening his voice and the sarcasm. "You can't mask the pain of losing somebody you love."

"You don't even know what you're talking about," Daniel spat out, pressing his shaking palm to his eye.

Jack gawked at Daniel, and said, "Oh, really? Why don't we take a ride in the Way, Way Back Machine and revisit my past, a past of which you are a part, shall we?" Daniel slapped his hand into his lap and slouched in the seat, closing his eyes and his attention to Jack's speech. "It begins with the Three Big Ds—death, despair, drunkenness. Are ya beginning to _see_ the similarities?"

"Yes, fine. You know me better than I know myself," Daniel stated, each quick word trilling with bitterness and sarcasm. "Are you finished?"

"Oh, I haven't even begun." Jack's lips curled sourly at the corners, taunting Daniel, he hoped, into an argument.

"Well, save it."

"For what?"

"You said yourself, when we got back from the hospital I could choose whether I wanted to talk, or whether I wanted to take a nap. I want to take a nap. In my own apartment, by the way, if you don't mind," Daniel snapped back.

"Okay, wait. Hold on while I sort out all these requests," Jack said, touching his brow, and when he felt the patronizing tone of his voice had completely taken affect, he went on, one finger in the air to highlight each statement. "Yes, we can save it. Yes, you can take a nap. No, you can't go back to your apartment. Yes, I mind."

"You're a prick," Daniel growled.

"Isn't it funny? Of all the languages you speak, the one that just doesn't sound right coming out of your mouth is profanity." Jack waited for Daniel to respond in kind, but his bravado only served to make Daniel shut down further. Jack pinched shut one eye, regretting that he'd let the conversation steer off in the wrong direction. He had wanted to chastise Daniel, but also to show he cared—all that "tough love" crap. He had wanted Daniel to be moved by his sensitive insights. Jack thought they were fairly effective.

But sometimes it was just too damn hard to figure out what was actually going on in Daniel's flaky head. He had tried sarcasm to roust him. Nothing. Anger. Even less. Jack had tried compassion. Crimony, he had bathed the man! Something had to give.

"Look, Daniel," he began, and when he tried to gain Daniel's attention, he saw, perhaps for the first time, the depths of Daniel's sorrow, etched into every line and sunken hollow in his face. He looked defeated, desperate and exhausted. Jack cleared his throat and wondered if he'd ever be able to get through to him.

Maybe his words were like salt in a wound. Maybe Daniel's wound was stinging enough, and maybe salty barbs only kept it from healing.

They drove the remaining miles in heavy silence.

---SG1---

Jack unlocked the front door and let Daniel glide by, mouthing a "you're welcome" in his wake. He threw down his keys on the hallway credenza, stripped off his leather jacket, hung it in the closet, and stood passively by while Daniel struggled to remove his coat. Once off and dangling in his left hand, Daniel stopped in front of Jack, waiting for him to step aside so he could hang up the coat.

"Yes, Daniel?" Jack said, tormenting Daniel.

Daniel's eyes flickered, and keeping his tone flat yet unconditionally angry, he said, "Would you please move?"

Jack sighed, moved out of the way, and said, "I suppose." He ambled toward the kitchen, tiring of the game, but not so much as to want to change any of the rules.

"Fraiser said you're supposed to take another one of those horse pills soon, so let me get some water for you," Jack called back, but Daniel once again let it go without a response. Jack filled a glass with water and brought it back to the hallway, where Daniel labored to hang up the coat using only one hand.

"You know, I'd offer to help, but…" Jack set the glass on the hallway credenza, leaned one hand into the wall, and crossed his ankles. "This is more entertainment than I've had in a month."

Daniel rattled off a list of expletives, all in the privacy of his mind, and furiously maintained his focus on hanging up the cumbersome jacket.

"I brought you out some water. You remember water. It's that stuff you mix with whiskey," Jack said, teasing Daniel with his carefully crafted expression of words and disdain—slatted eyes and a tight smile.

Once on the hanger, Daniel smacked the hook onto the clothes rod, slammed the door behind him, and met Jack's eyes for a brief, bellicose moment before tramping away.

"Something I said?" Jack asked, allowing Daniel to pass, his head shaking in feigned confusion. "Woe, is me. Well, there's only one thing to do when one offends another in such an ungentlemanly way," Jack pushed himself off of the wall and rounded to the kitchen, "and that is eat." He yanked open the refrigerator, grabbed a beer, and perused the shelves for anything edible.

"Daniel," he called after having taken a swig, "I'm gonna make some food. What sounds-"

The crack of the guest bedroom door slamming brought the subject to a close. Jack took another swallow of his beer, clucked his tongue against his cheek, and swung the refrigerator door shut. "And I was going to make omelets. His loss."

The sound of Jack rustling in the kitchen drifted through the closed door and into the room. Daniel didn't hear it. All he could hear was a pitiful cry deep within him. He sank to the edge of the bed, spent and staring into the void of loss and nothingness. It was that loss and the subsequent vanquished hope that had annihilated him, that buried him all these weeks later. It was the suddenness that had left him unprepared and in shock.

It was the pain, so encompassing it could not be breeched, so overwhelming it suffocated all other sensations. It was the wordless, formless void, the silence that bubbled up inside him, pushing through his gut, overtaking his lungs, his breath, his throat. It was that inexpressible grief, that churning, foaming cauldron of acid edging into his mouth that choked him, that, once out, would surely dissolve every ounce of him.

It needed to be extinguished. He needed to take away the burn, douse the searing pain. Nothing good could come of letting it run its course. No, stifle it. Take away its power.

But how?

His skin pinched, his blood ran like nails through his veins. His shoulders gathered, strained and ached around his neck. He suffered the agony of twisting his neck through the hard musculature, to no avail.

"I gotta get out of here," he said, hoisting himself off the bed. Snatching his wallet from the dresser where he had tossed it only moments earlier, Daniel bolted to the door.

Then stopped.

He had no car, no money, no glasses—where could he possibly go? If truth be told, he was a little woozy, but that no was different than usual, not these days.

He was woozy, and tired and aching. Hadn't Jack said it was time to take more drugs? Maybe that would help. He'd probably need two, he thought. The last dose hardly touched the ache. He patted down his pockets trying to remember where he'd put the samples of pills Janet had given him.

"Shit," he muttered, remembering they were in the coat, Jack's coat, in the closet. Which meant he'd have to go into the common area of the house. Which meant he'd have to see Jack. Nope. He'd rather sit in the darkened room and deal with his misery than subject himself to another kind of misery.

And so he lowered his teetering body to the bed once again, one hand behind him to steady himself, the other held to his chest inside the sling.

"No," he firmly stated, straightening himself, his expression grave. "I can do this." He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and nodded in agreement with himself. "I can do this. I don't have to have a, uh…No, I can…I'm okay."

God, he felt sick. He catalogued his bodily afflictions—nausea, exhaustion, hand and a lip that throbbed in unison. His head, Christ, his head wouldn't stop spinning, and even if it did it wouldn't stop pounding.

But it was the sickening, clawing panic commandeering his gut that gave him the worst of it. He tried to swallow against it, as if it were bile swept up through his gastric system. He tried to breathe deeply, quash it with extra oxygen. Perhaps if he released a small amount, just one small morsel of the grief, the tension would be somehow released, like a pressure valve on an overheating boiler. Just one small sob. It was there waiting at the back of his throat, anyhow. Let it out. His brow knit, his mouth trembled. Tears quickly rose. His lips parted, and something of a groan escaped before he froze.

An image of a fractured urn, cracked and held entirely together by the arid soil surrounding it, lit in his mind. Remove it, and it shatters. The cracks and pieces themselves bound by tension. Even the smallest movement would disrupt the precarious unity, even though damaged. Even though it was useless, destroyed beyond repair, it was still whole, and for all intents and purposes it was recognizable.

The sarcophagus of dirt, of loam was its only salvation. Take it out of its miserable surroundings and it was lost.

Allow himself the indulgence of releasing his burdensome guilt, and Daniel knew he'd be no more.

He threw his body back onto the bed and concentrated on the physical pain, the newest, sharpest sting, easy to access. He wished it to be so intense it would subjugate the other ache, his constant inner ache. That wound, like a crack of a bat on an already formed bruised, went on unabated. Its power could never be diminished by anything Daniel tried. It could only be diluted. Even then, it returned. Sometimes more vengeful.

But for those few hours of relief, those drifting hours (days, if he were lucky) in smoky, liquid halcyon, he could breathe and not be reminded of the fissures in his soul. How, he wondered, did the liquid even stay inside his body with all those cracks? Maybe that's why it took more and more each night. Maybe the scotch, the vodka, the wine—maybe it was seeping out through those cracks.

And maybe it was because there was no scotch, or vodka, or wine to soothe those jagged edges in him. He needed the sharp edges dulled. He needed something.

"Oh, God," he whispered, unaware of the tear trailing over his temple and into his hair. "How did I let this happen?"

Daniel turned his body to the side, frightened and shaking. He choked a handful of blankets in his fist and stared out the window until the white streetlamp burned his eyes. Until more tears formed, some to lap over his stinging eyes, some the helpless reaction to his fear.

"I'm okay. I can do this. I'll be okay. I'm okay," he whispered to himself, hoping that if he said it enough he'd start to believe it. The mantra had worked in the past. With no other choice than to deal with the agony, the screaming silence, he repeated the lie. "I'm okay. I'm okay…"

In the past he could convince himself of the lie. In the past he knew when it was time to do so, instead of carrying on with another lie—that he drank to fill the time; that he drank just to calm his nerves.

In the past, he could even believe that.

In the past, he'd needed to believe it. Many times.

* * *

tbc 


	4. Shattered Dreams pt 3

Shattered Dreams part 3

* * *

It was so quiet in the house, that in the middle of a sentence in his book, Jack fell asleep. Slumped in the leather chair, his ankles crossed atop the ottoman, Jack drifted off into a sorely needed slumber.

Until the sound of muffled footsteps in the hallway behind him brought his eyes wide open. However, he remained still.

Daniel paused for a brief moment just outside the living room, making sure Jack was still asleep. When Jack didn't as much as flinch, Daniel moved into the room, squinted his eyes and searched for the phone. He'd call a cab, and by the time Jack woke up, there'd be no time to argue. The last thing he wanted to do was argue with Jack. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He just wanted to go home, deal with it all there.

He didn't know when or how he had finally fallen asleep. He supposed it was exhaustion that won over. When he woke up, his hand throbbing inside the cast, he wasn't exactly sure where he was. He lay still in the guest bed for a short time, until the pain and the familiar dread began to deluge him. That was when he decided to call a cab and get the hell out of Jack's house.

There, on the side table, was the phone. Daniel slowly reached his hand out and edged the cell phone off the table. It was awkward to go through the motions with only his left hand, but he managed to press in the number for information before he noticed Jack's face turned toward him.

"Whatcha doin'?" Jack asked.

Daniel dropped his head to his chest and ended his call. "Nothing, apparently."

"I gotta tell ya, Daniel, I'm a little hurt." Jack closed his book and set it on the table next to him. He brushed the sleep from his hair. "I thought we were going to have a nice talk after your nap. You didn't think I'd forget, did you?"

"One can dream," Daniel said, his attention landing on the slightly yellowed globe next to Jack's credenza. He touched the continent of Africa on the globe, trailing his finger along the Nile River. When his finger reached the Sudanese border, he started back up the river, to Aswan and over the great dam, to Luxor and Qena, Asyt and El Minya. To Cairo. Cairo…

"Speaking of dreaming, how'd you sleep?" Jack asked, standing and stretching his back.

"Fine."

"Well, good." Jack adjusted the waistline on his khakis and started toward the kitchen. "I have an old pot of coffee just about boiled down to sludge. Interested?"

Daniel turned the globe within its frame and found Colorado, 135 degrees west and an entire lifetime away. "It's ten o'clock at night, Jack."

"Steak?"

Daniel shook his head, as much to decline the offer as to show his frustration with Jack's attempt at humor. He found, as he often did with Jack, that the terrain was barren for any humor, made more so by the emptiness in his own spirit. He spun the globe back toward Africa. To Egypt. To another home where he no longer belonged, but would always yearn for. There had been laughter there, once. Laughter and a sense of himself. Of belonging.

He could be there, Egypt, right about now, drenching his cold body in the warmth of the sun, losing himself in the unearthed fragments of some long-forgotten person's belongings. That's what he needed—a dig, somewhere away from civilization, a chance to put together the remains of someone else's life. What he didn't need was to be standing in a Colorado living room, forced to examine the remains of his own. Sometimes those remains, those artifacts of a life, were too destroyed to make any sense. Better to leave them alone, mark the findings "Misc."

With a flick of his hand, the world spun to the west.

"So…" Jack muttered, bringing in two cups of coffee to the living room. He set both on the coffee table, propped his feet up and waited for Daniel to join him.

Daniel watched the globe spin, watched it slow and finally come to a stop. He tried to swallow against a knot forming in his throat. He blinked his eyes, a nervous habit, and said, "What?"

"What do you want to talk about?"

"Nothing."

"Then it's going to be a long night." Jack picked up his cup and sipped his coffee, never taking his eyes off of Daniel. "Look, Daniel, here's the bottom line: You're here, whether Doc Fraiser ordered it or not. You're here because I don't think you're dealing with losing Sha're all that well."

"So says Mr. Emotional Awareness."

"Thank you for making my point for me!" Jack cried out. "Surely the irony of me being able to see what a mess you are hasn't been lost on you. You gotta admit that if I can figure it out, you must be pretty bad." Daniel remained stoic, silent and biting with anger. "Daniel, I've seen you shot, zatted, your brains fried by the ribbon device, and still, after all that, your game is better than most. But right now, you _got_ no game. And I can't use you unless you're prepared to bring your skills to the court."

"I'm sorry I haven't made myself available for you to use, Jack," Daniel snapped back.

"Oh, stop it." Jack laid his cold stare on Daniel back, wishing he'd somehow retaliate, show a little spirit, defend his honor—something. The pitiful sarcasm was annoying. "You're pathetic enough right now. Don't lay maudlin on top of it."

"What…what if I don't want to get back to work?"

"I'm not all that concerned with what you want."

"So I noticed."

"I'm concerned with what you need."

"And you think you know what I need?" Daniel asked, raising his chin with indignation.

"I think you need to get a handle on yourself and shake whatever demons are clawing away at your insides," Jack told him. "I think you need someone to talk to."

"I can take care of myself."

"Yes, because you've done such a stellar job of it so far."

Daniel pinched shut his eyes, his irritation with Jack verging toward petulance. He gave it a moment, unclenched his jaw, and said, "Jack, I want to go home."

"What's so pressing at home, Daniel?" he asked with a skeptical eye on the younger man.

Daniel felt beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip. "Nothing. I just would like to be in my own home, my own bed and with my own clothes, so I can do what I want."

"And what is it you want to do, Daniel?"

"What are you insinuating, Jack?" Daniel asked, forcing his thumbnail into the equatorial divide.

"Am I insinuating anything, Daniel?"

"This is ridiculous," Daniel sighed, suddenly spinning around, hoping that by facing Jack, it would distract him from the truth. "If you were in my shoes, you'd want to be left alone, too."

"You're right," Jack agreed, dabbing his finger into his coffee to fish out a floater. "If I had lost someone I loved, I'd probably want to be left alone, too. Oh, wait," he said, pausing, placing his coffee onto the table. "That's right. I _did_ lose someone." Jack pushed himself off the couch, slid his hands into his pockets, and sauntered over toward Daniel. "One more time for those in the cheap seats, see if these three things jog your memory: a fired side arm, a distinct lack of a DHD, and a nuclear bomb. Anything?"

"That was different," Daniel whispered, feeling Jack's presence much too close. He shifted away from that presence, his shoulders tensed, his gaze fixed on the globe before him

"How?" Jack kept his focus riveted to Daniel, waiting for an answer, but when all Daniel could muster was a deepening furrow of his brow, Jack answered it for him. "You just want to be left alone. Is that it?"

"Yes."

"I wanted to be left alone so badly that I accepted a suicide mission to Abydos." Jack pressed closer into Daniel's space, uncomfortably close, and asked, "What mission were you on last night?"

Daniel scowled, knocked his fist against the North Atlantic Ocean and thought he'd call Jack's bluff, just get the damn thing over.

"Yes, Jack," he began, stepping back, rubbing his aching neck, "I got drunk last night. And yes, I was drunk the night before." He stole a glance at Jack to take in his expression, and just as quickly turned away, veering into the living room. "Last I heard I was of the drinking age."

"How'd the fight start?" Jack asked, shifting his weight to lean against the wall.

Daniel massaged tiny circles across his eyelids, eyes that were sore from lack of sleep and having to go the day without glasses. "I don't know. Something about a girl in the bar…"

"Hello!" Jack gawked, propelling himself away from the wall and into the middle of the living room. "A girl? In the bar?" he asked, passing Daniel with a look. "Any other night, and I'd want details. Not so much tonight." He waited an uncomfortable moment before taking a seat back on the couch. He added to the discomfort he was piling onto Daniel by staring at him, his head angled, clucking his cheek. "Not that I'm judging, but…what girl, and what bar, and what the hell happened?"

"Nothing happened. I don't think," Daniel muttered, sneaking a glimpse of Jack to measure his own sense of foreboding against Jack's reaction. "No, nothing happened. It's all a little vague, but I was there, she sat down because some idiot was bothering her. The rest is…" He stopped, waved his hand in the air and shook his head.

"Soooo," Jack said, leaning his head back into his woven fingers, "let me make the obvious conclusion here: Said idiot continues to bother said girl. Said archeologist defends said girl and winds up in a fight. Not that a part of me isn't crying out with pride, Daniel, but what the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't know," Daniel said, not skirting the issue, but rather disconcerted by the fact. He shuffled his feet, held up his throbbing hand, then lowered it again with a wince. Not looking at Jack, he added in a quiet, subdued voice, "Jack, I appreciate that you came to my assistance and all, but now I just want to go home. Can I please just call a cab and go home?"

"Do you understand the ramifications of your actions last night?" Jack asked, drilling him with cold, sober eyes.

Daniel raised his cast, and said, "I suppose I do."

"So you got a broken paw. Big deal." Daniel felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He was well acquainted with Jack's studied, controlled anger. But the feel of those black eyes so ruthlessly upon him was unnerving. Jack knew it. "The bigger quandary, the one that really irks me, Daniel, is that now I have a problem. Couple problems, if and when that other drunk goes to the police to file a report."

The inference that he was the primary drunk was not lost on Daniel, nor was the offensive manner in which it was spoken. Daniel bristled.

"It's my responsibility," he said, seething. "I'll take care of it."

"No, you won't. What you'll do is lay low." Jack was filled with the urge to scream at Daniel, march over to him and slap him, beg the question of him, "What the hell is your problem?" But he didn't. He pursed his lips and watched the sweat forming on Daniel's forehead.

"Fine," Daniel croaked out, his wide eyes carefully guarded. "Is that all?"

"Oh, if only it were. See, there's another fine mess you've gotten yourself into, Daniel: If I hadn't stopped you last night, you were about two seconds away from exposing the entire SGC over an unsecured line. How you gonna take care of that one, Daniel?"

Daniel lowered his eyes, tilted his chin down, and suffered the humiliation of the color washing out of his face. He had no idea what Jack was talking about, but knew enough of his own habit that it was probably true. The cast on his hand, gained from an injury he scarcely remembered, was proof enough that he had been beyond drunk the night before. He was ashamed of himself. Ashamed that he had let it—the drinking, the night—escape his control.

"So, you see, me picking you up last night was partly out of friendship, partly because you called me collect and passed out before you hung up. A thirty minute collect call, Daniel," Jack said, craning to make eye contact with Daniel. "But more importantly, I picked you up in the name of national security." He waited for Daniel to argue with him, to object. But he did nothing. He just stood there and took it, head bowed, every muscle tensed, yet somehow defeated at the same time. Jack wasn't at all sure any of it was making the impact on Daniel that it should, so rose to join him in the middle of the room. "Is it beginning to dawn on you how bad all this really is? Is it, Daniel?"

From his hunched position and through clenched teeth, Daniel said, "It won't happen again."

"You bet it won't, but how can I be sure of that?" Jack asked.

Daniel found the cantankerous strength to stare down Jack, and said, "I guess you'll just have to trust me."

"Wish I could, Daniel, but after last night, you can imagine I have some concerns." The two men stared into each other's eyes and fought a battle of wills, of prideful, iron-willed intractability.

Daniel sidestepped Jack, escaping anymore of the oppressive physical confrontation. "Then I suppose it's time for me to resign my position." He said it to spite Jack, but when the words were out, they seemed to have a buoyant truth to them, as if he had said them before and meant it. He found himself halting, turning and, mouth agape, repeating himself. "I—I—I'll resign. Effective immediately."

Jack glared hard at him. He pressed his jaw to the side and tried to read Daniel's face, tried to find the "tell" in his eyes. A chill went through Jack when he realized Daniel wasn't bluffing.

"And do what?" Jack asked, having found the table had turned into a very different game.

Daniel stared back for a brief moment while he thought of his possibilities. Frames of emptiness and roads that ended before they could begin cluttered his mind. His shoulders slouched under the weight of an abandoned and unattainable future.

"I have no idea." Dejected and tired, he dropped to the edge of the coffee table and cradled his head in his hand. "Is that what you wanted to hear, that I'm…adrift? Are you happy now?"

Jack perused the thought in his mind, more for the pregnant pause it offered, hoping to gain a chagrinned look from Daniel. It did. Jack moved to the fireplace and took a seat on the hearth.

"No, Daniel, I'm not happy you're miserable," he said, wiping the fireplace soot from his hands. "And, contrary to what you're probably thinking, I'm not trying to make you miserable."

"Then why, Jack?"

"Look, I just want to make sure that you realize there's a lot at stake, and like it or not, you're in no position to be indiscrete."

"Yes, Jack, I realize that. Can I go now?"

"No, Daniel," Jack snapped, the line between his eyebrows deepening. "You can't."

"Why?"

Jack threw his hands up in annoyance, searched the room for anything that might understand his frustration, and said, "Because, national security aside, for the last two weeks you've been AWOL, and when I finally find you, you're a drunken mess with a broken hand, two cracked teeth, and a chip the size of Cheyenne Mountain on your shoulder."

Knowing full well his response was going to come off sounding as anemic as it really was, Daniel said, "I had a bad night."

"Ya think?"

"What do you want me to say? Huh? Do…what…" Daniel stammered, stymied by his defensiveness and exhaustion. "Just…what do you want from me? An apology? Fine. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"No, Daniel, I don't want an apology."

"Then what?!" Daniel bellowed, his dejection swiftly transmuting to incandescent fury.

Jack gave the echo of Daniel's anger a moment to dissipate, and when he spoke again, it was from a different place in their relationship. It was from that place where he and Daniel had spent many dark hours, many lost and bitter days. It was from a hard-won and strangely intimate friendship.

"Talk to me, Daniel," he quietly said. "Tell me what's going on."

It was the quality of Jack's voice that caught him off guard. It was the sudden change in timbre, the sudden compassion that stopped him short. It was hard enough to keep up with the bitter truths being hurled at him. This new show of consideration drained him, and he began to tremble from the sheer exhaustion, from the pretense that was crumbling all around him.

Daniel sighed, let his hands drop into his lap, sighed heavily again. "What…what do you want to know, Jack? Do you want to hear that, yeah, it was pretty bad there for a while, but now I'm fine? That I may have lost my wife, but now, at the very least, I can be comforted by the fact that she's no longer suffering? Is that it?"

"Daniel-"

"Or, do you want to hear that my life is an abysmal disaster? That every time I close my eyes I see her face? That every time I…" Daniel came to a grinding halt, his words stuck in his throat like barbed wire. "What do you want to hear, Jack?"

"Whatever you want to tell me."

Daniel glared at Jack, his eyes swollen and red. "That's just it. I don't want to tell you anything."

"Then what can I do to help you with this?" Jack asked, lacing his fingers together between his knees.

Daniel felt a wholly inappropriate laughter build inside his body, and said, "You can give me back my wife." It didn't seem all that funny once it was out, and he fought to keep the more realistic sorrow out of his expression. "I guess that's kind of out of the question, huh?"

Jack's eyes pinched down, his features softened with heartfelt sadness. "I wish I could."

"Yes, well, see, that's where I made my first mistake, too," Daniel said, waggling his finger at Jack. "If my life has taught me anything, it's that wishing and hoping and…and praying are exercises in futility. Doesn't matter how much…" He drooped, held his broken hand close to his chest, and dug his nails into his scalp. It was all too raw, too jagged and cutting. The pain sliced at his heart, at his throat, at his churning gut. "It doesn't matter."

"God, Daniel, why didn't you tell me this? I could have-"

"What, Jack? What could you have done?" he demanded, darting his head up to stare at Jack.

"Whatever you needed, Daniel," Jack told him, his words and gentle voice meant to soothe Daniel's troubled mind, not add fuel to a smoldering fire.

"What I need is to go home," Daniel said, raising his tired body from the table. _What I need_, he thought_, is a drink…_

Jack watched Daniel draw himself up to a slouch, and Jack saw how full of pain his friend really was. "Anything else, Daniel. Ask me anything else."

"Jack," Daniel implored, unable to control the tremble in his voice, "I just want to go home. I'm tired, and…"

"And, what?"

_And I really want a drink_, he thought, and hoped the words hadn't trickled out into the room. He swatted at the air between he and Jack, shook his head, and sniffed. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters," Jack said.

Daniel slapped his hand against his forehead, trying to grind the tension out of his skull. "Are you going to contradict everything I say?"

"Just the things that don't make sense," Jack said.

"Then you have a lot of work ahead of you, because nothing makes sense." He returned to the globe, the inaccurate representation of his world, laid out in a perfect sphere, each border delineated, each country carefully tinted. Every city and country he'd ever been to was on the globe. He could practically map out his entire young-adult life on its surface. With each turn he found another part of himself—His grandfather's Holland, his father's Boston, his mother's adopted Peru, his Cairo, his New York, his Chicago, his Colorado Springs. But where was Sha're? He gnawed at his lower lip, welcoming the pain, swiped his fist under his nose and shook his head. "Nothing makes sense."

"Daniel, sit down," Jack said, sensing the fatigue in Daniel.

"Nothing makes sense, Jack," Daniel said. He could feel his chin trembling, his eyes burning. "It's just all…nonsense."

"Like what?"

"Like…" Daniel shrugged and flattened his palm against the continent of North America. "Like me. I just don't make any sense anymore. I'm just…everything I do, everything I say—nonsense."

"Okay, now you're starting to sound a little whiney," Jack said, pushing himself off the hearth. He walked to the wall in front of Daniel and leaned his shoulder into it.

"I'm obsolete," Daniel argued, daring Jack to disagree with him. "I joined the SGC to find my wife. I found her. My job is done. So what's next for me? I can't go back to academia, not after the way I left it. See? Nonsense."

"You know you still have a place in the SGC," Jack reminded him.

"To do what?" Daniel asked, searching the Northwest Territory for some city, some point of interest in order to be distracted. "Translate lost languages? I can give you the name of half a dozen people who could do the same thing."

"Okay, then, what about the kid?" Jack said.

Daniel's chin dropped to his chest, riddled with a new sense of guilt. "I can't."

"But you said you promised Sha're that you'd find it. Him. Wh…whatever," Jack said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, I have a feeling Sha're is fairly used to me letting her down, so I don't suppose this will come as any surprise to her when I don't find the child." He tapped his fisted hand against the globe, found the strength, maybe the need, to look into Jack's eyes. And when he saw the true and pitiful concern in them, Daniel began to cry. "I'm sorry," he quickly said. Ashamed of his tears, he turned away, wiping his hand over his face. "I'm sorry. It's the, uh… I'm sorry."

Jack's plan was to bring Daniel to some kind of brink, to get him to hash it out, purge his body of whatever it was that was destroying him. Jack thought he needed it. In those first days after Sha're's death, they all waited for Daniel to begin the grieving process, to rely on them when he needed a moment or two to collect himself. It never happened. For all intents and purposes, Daniel had continued on with his work as if losing his wife was just part of the natural progression.

Maybe, they had thought, he was dealing with it better than they thought.

Watching his friend fight against his emotions, Jack understood how wrong they all had been. "Daniel-"

Daniel's tears seized his breath, and yet he attempted to manage his sadness. "Nonsense. All of it."

"Daniel-"

"Jack," Daniel said, closing his burning eyes, empty and listless from the unrelenting weight of his unbearable grief, "I just want to go home."

"I know, but…no."

"I don't know what you want from me, Jack," Daniel said, rasping out the words, the choked back sobs halting his words as he tried to pull in air around the tightness in his throat. "I…I don't have anything to offer that could possibly make you understand."

"Try me," Jack said, the words unbearably soft.

"Jack…" Daniel found his only language to be silent, then. A shake of the head, a twist of the lips. Raised brows, raised shoulders. He sucked in a shuddering breath, tried to offer a word, something to Jack, but his life had been reduced to a parcel of half-finished sentences, unspeakable truths, and a cacophonous void. "I…"

"What?" Jack stepped closer, touched Daniel's shoulder, and asked again. "What?"

The feel of Jack's hand, warm and heavy with unwanted kindness, brought Daniel to the edge of his grief. He looked into that empty space and then, afraid of the depths, backed away.

"Don't," he whispered, pressing one extended finger in the space between him and Jack. Daniel's eyes filled with panic, with cresting tears, and he shook his head, mouth trembling

"Don't what?" Jack asked, offering his empty hands in question.

"Don't…um, don't…just…" Daniel muttered, his blurry vision focused on Jack. "I told you, I don't know what to say. I mean, even if I could find the words, I wouldn't know what to say. There's just…it… none of it means anything anymore."

And Jack supposed Daniel had spoken the truth, finally, cryptic as it was. What Jack hadn't prepared himself for was the depths of his own sadness for the beleaguered man in front of him. All the other crap—the phone bill, the fight, the slip-of-the-tongue—all of it seemed suddenly frivolous and unimportant. The more Daniel stood apart from him, searching Jack's eyes for some understanding, the more Jack did understand.

"Daniel," Jack said, inching toward his friend, "Daniel, you're tired. Why don't you sit down? That's all. Just…sit down."

"It won't help, you know," Daniel told him, finding it more and more difficult to see Jack through his tear-filled eyes.

"What won't help?"

"Talking about it. They're only words, and none of them mean anything or make any difference. I try to make sense of it. Just when I think I understand it, it—any sense of reason, or meaning—I lose it, and I can't get it back." The dispirited words fell from Daniel's mouth, wrenching in their cloaked desperation. He wasn't certain that the sounds were even audible. Somewhere in his mind he could hear the words, but they melded with his trampled thoughts, his swirling confusion, until the jumble of thought and voice employed an incompetent interlocutor. "I try, but…it… I can't hold onto it."

"I know." With a steady hand, the pressure hardly perceptible upon Daniel's back, Jack guided him to the chair, all the while nodding, agreeing with whatever Daniel was saying. All the while aware that he, too, had been holding back his own sense of bereavement. "I know."

And Daniel sat down, shaking his head, now and again wiping a hand over his mouth and under his nose, surprised and confused by the wetness covering his hand.

Jack took a seat on the corner of the coffee table and just watched Daniel. He offered no words of comfort, no touch of sympathy. He simply watched him. Watched Daniel wrestle with emotions he knew the younger man battled against voicing. He watched Daniel's shoulders round in on themselves, curl around his slumped head. He watched and listened, somewhat uncomfortable that he was hearing the unmistakable sounds of one man's private, intimate sufferings. He understood Daniel's misery, and the more he watched, the more those memories of loss and pain came back to him. The more they came back to him, the more he felt he needed to…do something.

But what? What had worked for him when Charlie died? Jack filed through the assorted niceties and messages he and Sara had received in those days and weeks following their child's death. Strange, he couldn't remember any of them. That time was a blur to him.

What could he offer his friend? Nothing, he supposed. Nothing except time and some peace.

When Daniel seemed to quiet himself, when the trembling in his hand slowed, when the stolen breaths became less labored, he shook his head and tore his good hand through his hair. "God, I hate this."

"Yeah, me, too," Jack said.

"This isn't how I wanted it to happen."

"Wanted what to happen?" Jack asked.

Daniel pulled his eyelid tight over his eye, pausing to let his voice come down from its awful pitch. "I wanted to be more…prepared."

"For what?" Jack asked, incredulously.

Daniel dug his elbow into his knee and grasped a handful of hair in his hand, anchoring his pounding head there. "About a year ago I started thinking I'd never find her again. I guess I thought it was unrealistic to think I'd ever find her." Sudden, renewed tears fell onto his thighs, forming wet droplets on his pant legs. "You know, of all the times I had to be right…"

"So—what?—you thought if you prepared for the possibility, it would be easier if and when it happened?" Jack asked.

Daniel's chest lifted with one implosive gulp of air. "I didn't want to be caught…" he tried to explain. "I thought if I prepared myself, it wouldn't…"

Jack shifted quickly, closer to Daniel, all of the sudden understanding the forlorn misconception in Daniel's plan. "But you _can't_ prepare for death," Jack said, finishing Daniel's words. "When death comes, it's never easy. God, Daniel, of all people, I'd think you'd be the first to realize that."

"I know," Daniel said softly. "I just thought this time I'd be able to…handle it better. Accept it, you know?"

"Did you really think that was going to work?"

Daniel washed his hand across his face, pressed his fingertips to his lips. His watery eyes, lashes spiked, met Jack's after a moment, and all Daniel could do was shrug his shoulders.

"Daniel," Jack whispered, then pressed his hand across the divide and grasped Daniel's shaking knee.

"There's a…there's a black…hole in my wife's chest, Jack," Daniel said, laying his hand across that spot on his chest where the soot and blood of a staff blast had ripped through Sha're. His hand tugged at the woven material, his entire body shook under the sickening memory. "I feel like…like there's one in me, too. And there's this…cold wind, and it whistles through me all day long."

"I know," Jack said, understanding all too well. God, how he knew that feeling.

"I don't know what to do, Jack," Daniel whispered. "I wake up, and I'm…empty, and that cold air just…"

Jack never let his eyes leave Daniel's. He nodded, gently patted Daniel's knee, and allowed the silence of the room to soften his friend's frayed nerves.

And then Jack began to speak. Tentatively, at first. Unsure that what he was saying was at all appropriate. "Daniel," he said, not waiting for a response, "I remember this. I know what…well, I remember what these days are like. I remember what it's like to be so numb you can't breathe, but not quite numb enough. I remember."

Daniel crossed his arm over his cast, hooked his hand onto his shoulder and stared at the floor between them, hearing Jack, but only beginning to comprehend his meaning near the end of his sentence.

"There's nothing I can say to make this better for you, Daniel. Nothing I can say will erase that pain or fill that hole. I believe you have to do that for yourself. But, Daniel," he said, reaching forward to cup the back of Daniel's head, "what I can do is help you from making a mistake."

Daniel clumsily swiped the back of his hand across his wet cheek, pinched his lips, forced back sobs that insisted on ebbing. When he spoke, his voice came out strained and muffled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Jack rubbed his hand back and forth across Daniel's tight neck, stalling for time until he could find the right words. "Daniel, do whatever you need to do to grieve the loss of your wife, but promise me you won't try to get through it by drinking. It won't work. It won't fill the emptiness. I know. I've seen too many people destroyed by doing that. Right now, I don't think you really understand how easy it would be to fall into that kind of problem."

Daniel lifted his head and locked eyes with Jack. A hot brand of guilt and shame lanced his gut, and he wanted to tell Jack that he knew all too well how easy it was.

Maybe this was his chance, Daniel thought. Fresh tears slid across his cheeks, propelled by the humiliating truth only he knew. Maybe it would be better if Jack knew. Maybe he had already fallen without a hope of ever bouncing back.

"Jack, I…" he whispered, forcing himself to trust Jack enough to tell him, to just end this once and for all.

"I know what you're going to tell me, that it was only a couple days, but look what happened?" Jack broke in, unaware. "You can't possibly think this is a less painful way of dealing with Sha're's death." Jack peered into Daniel's stricken face, heavy tears sneaking over his trembling lips "Promise me, Daniel," he said, stroking the back of Daniel's head with his thumb. "Promise me it ends here."

And maybe that was all Daniel needed to hear. Maybe all he needed was to make a promise to Jack, and it would be over. No need to explain further, no need to cover up anything else. No, he'd do it. Maybe he needed to be held accountable to someone other than himself for once. Yes, he'd promise Jack he wouldn't drink anymore. Maybe this was that sign he always looked for that told him he'd reached his limit. No maybes—this was it. He was done. He'd quit this binge.

Daniel nodded, wiped his sleeve across his face and nodded again. "Okay. Promise. Scout's honor and all that," he said, with a faint smile.

"Good," Jack said, nodding along with him. Maybe it was a good thing Daniel had found out so quickly the potential hazard of drinking, Jack thought, especially for a guy like Daniel who could hardly hold his liquor. "Good."

"I'm sorry, Jack," Daniel sobbed, pressing his trembling hand under his arm. "I don't know what happened."

"It's all right. Forget about it," Jack said, rubbing Daniel's neck again. Remorse was good, Jack thought. Yeah, Daniel would be fine. Their late night talk had gone exactly as Jack had planned. Jack took a certain amount of pride in that.

"I'm sorry," Daniel whispered.

"It's okay," Jack said.

"I guess…I guess I'm a little tired."

"You look like hell."

"It's just…It's all so…"

"It'll be better in the morning," Jack said. "Why don't you go back to bed? In the morning I'll take you home."

_Home,_ Daniel thought. _Home to what?_ After all his protestations, his pleading, would it be wrong to say he didn't want to go home now? Would it set off further inquiry into his emotional state if he admitted to Jack that he was a little afraid to go back to his empty apartment?

"Come on," Jack said, standing up, patting Daniel on the back. "Go back to bed. I'm exhausted."

A fresh panic bubbled up inside him, but Daniel rose alongside Jack and agreed to return to his bed. Every step he took was one more step toward that time when he'd be alone again with only his thoughts, his grief. He knew he'd made Jack a promise, but the weight of that promise suddenly felt immense. He had to tell him. If Jack expected him to not drink—tomorrow, or the day after that, even—Daniel couldn't go back to his home, not yet.

"Jack," he began.

"Oh, that's right. No, I didn't forget. It's time for your pain medication," Jack said, sauntering into the kitchen to fetch Daniel's pills and a glass of water.

While Jack was gone, Daniel thought of how he would tell Jack the truth. Of how he would come out with it. He'd be honest, more honest than he ever wanted to be.

"Here," Jack said, placing the amber container in Daniel's hand and the glass of water on the table next to him. "You know how many to take. I've got to…well, to be honest, I've gotta pee. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Before Daniel could respond, Jack was loping down the hall.

Daniel looked at the bottle of pills, and he looked down the hall. He looked at the label on the bottle. One every four hours, as needed. One. He looked down the hall. He turned the bottle on its side and shook it until one pill rolled out. And then one more. Daniel righted the small container, scooped up the two pills and tossed them into his mouth. He gulped down a mouthful of water with the pills, closed his eyes, and blindly felt for the small plastic bottle. When his fingertips found it, he reached inside, and with one finger, leveraged out one more pill. He downed that with another mouthful of water.

Maybe now he could keep that promise. Soon. In about twenty minutes he'd be able to stand by his word.

Tomorrow, he would worry about going home. Tomorrow, he would begin again. Not tonight. Tonight, he would leave it all behind.

Daniel slid the pill bottle into his pocket, flicked off the lights, and padded back to his room.

* * *

tbc 


	5. Chapter 3: Scattered Reflections pt 1

Scattered Reflections part 1

* * *

Daniel paced the length of his rain-drenched balcony, his motions unconscious, frantic with the need for distraction, for keeping his body active so his mind wouldn't have to think.

Amidst the relentless turmoil churning within him, he'd lost all track of time. For how long he'd been outside in the cold and the damp, he didn't know. It could have been mere minutes or, even hours, for all he knew. His hands shook, his legs trembled, nausea churned his stomach, even his skin itched and tingled, but he could get through this. He'd been through this before, knew he could make it through again, he could fight it.

If he could only get through today, he'd be all right.

Daniel paused his restless motions, cradled his injured hand to his chest and rocked his upper body slightly to ease the muted, but still nagging pain. The pain-meds he'd taken the night before had finally almost worn off, but he didn't want to take any more of them just yet. He'd woken that morning still feeling the effects of the medication, his thoughts muzzy and dissociated. His tenuous control on his emotions as weak as filament.

He knew he couldn't keep it together feeling that out of sorts. He supposed he could always take enough pills to knock himself out again for a while, just to get over the worst of it, but the idea alarmed him. He knew he could handle the alcohol, knew just how much to drink before he stupidly lost it like he had done a few nights ago—a mistake he vowed he would not be repeating. With pills, he had no idea how many would grant him sleep and how many would only send him teetering over the edge, or worse.

No, he'd wait another few hours or until the throbbing in his hand became unbearable before taking his meds. For now, the distant ache might even distract him. Keep him focused and help steel his resolve.

He took a deep breath and rested his elbows on the cold, wet railing in front of him. Dropping his head and peering through his dangling arms, Daniel stared down at the street some fifty feet below where he stood. Vertiginous and shaking, Daniel's vision swam so that the tiny cars and people bustling about faded in and out of focus, but he couldn't look away. Something compelled him to keep looking, to keep searching, but for what, he didn't know.

Like so many things in his life, the allure was both terrifying and fascinating at the same time.

_To just let go,_ he wondered, _what would that feel like? _To let go of everything, no longer having to think, no more guilt, nothing left to do. Just a brief moment of freedom—freedom from loss, pain, guilt and then finally release.

A cold wave of fear inched down Daniel's spine, and he pushed away from the railing, turning his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, as though it would block out the frighteningly tempting thought. Tearing a hand through his hair, he was surprised to find the short strands dripping wet. The lenses of his scratched, spare pair of glasses were stippled with raindrops.

When had it started raining again? The fact that he hadn't even noticed the rain drizzling down on him sent another shiver of fear through him.

_Pull yourself together,_ he chastised himself. _Don't do this, you're okay, you'll be fine. You can get through this. Just make it through today, and you'll be fine. The first day is always the hardest. You know that…_

But even as he tried to console and calm himself, a quiet, but insistent voice in the back of his mind spoke up, nearly drowning out the mantra. The voice of a conspirator that chanted, "It'll be easier if you could calm down. Come one, just one little drink won't hurt you. You know you want one, and it'll make you feel better. Just one. One drink never hurt anyone."

Daniel shook his aching head, trying to tune out the dangerous voice, trying to combat his depleting willpower. "No, no.… I can do this," he whispered under his breath, unaware he was speaking aloud over the tumultuous thoughts whirling in his head. "I can do this..."

For most of his life, Daniel had been fighting to stay on top, to not let it—any of it—overcome him. So far, for the most part, he'd managed. So far, no one knew.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. Sha're knew. When she found out, God, he was humiliated. She'd only known him for a short while, and he had managed to present her with the one facet of his life he'd managed to hide so carefully on Earth. His beautiful young wife, and what did she know of her brand new husband?

He'd made a promise to her, a couple, actually. And aside from a few transgressions, he'd been able to keep his promise. Well, he had kept one. The other promise was obliterated by a staff weapon shot to her chest.

Standing over her grave, he knew he was burying his wife and his promise to her. Everyone else in attendance that day saw his grief but Daniel felt the carefully restrained monster let loose in his mind, its constraints ripped off, just as Sha're had been ripped from him.

The problem was, no one except Daniel saw it coming. How could they? None of them really knew him. He'd never told any of them, and that's why it's called a secret. That's why he had stayed away from all of them. He had to handle this alone, he couldn't lose it again in front of any of them.

The other trouble was, with Sha're gone, without anyone to whom to stay true and give him a sense of purpose, Daniel found the ordeal of summoning his old willpower futile. She was gone, and with her, so was Daniel's secret. Daniel truly was back to being the sole keeper of the burden. A burden that seemed too heavy for him to carry anymore.

_No, no,_ he silently scolded himself, banging his fist on the railing. _I know what this is. I'm smarter than this. I can do this. No one has to know. They never have to find out..._

And that would be the way he gained control of his life again, by denying it ever happened. He could do this. He'd cut out the drinking. Just stop. Stop it, right now, today. He'd regain control of his life again. He'd done it before, he could do it again. It just took discipline, and Daniel was more than well-versed in the art of self-discipline. He could do it. He could do it alone, like before.

Somewhere he had heard you couldn't do these things for anyone else but yourself or they just didn't take. He didn't know how true that was, all he knew was it had never worked for him in the past. It was only when he had someone who mattered that Daniel was able to care about himself enough to stay completely sober.

Then he remembered the promise he'd made to Jack. There was that… Maybe that was something to hold onto. A lifeline, if you will. Jack didn't have to know the full extent of Daniel's problem. Jack didn't even have to know the significance of the promise he had asked of Daniel. Daniel could simply use that promise as a reminder of what could happen if he turned his back on it. He'd broken promises to Sha're and look at what had happened to her.

"God…" His knees began to buckle, and he bent over, his forehead resting on the slick railing, one hand trying to keep hold of his position. "How did I let this get so out of hand?"

Gulping in another deep breath, he continued the refrain in his head. He could do this—he had a good reason again. He just didn't remember it being this difficult to stop the last time. In fact, he had a hard time even remembering the last time. Had it been that long ago, or was the old pain medication still clouding his thoughts?

Or maybe, he just didn't want to remember. It wasn't that long ago, was it? It was just…

Well, if was going to be honest with himself, it hadn't been so long ago that he'd found himself in this same, dark place, had it? He'd broken his promise, betrayed Sha're twice—long before two nights ago.

The realization brought a sharp pain to his chest that nearly took his breath away. His throat tightened and Daniel wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or to scream. He opened his mouth and nothing came out but a pathetic sounding whimper that infuriated him. He clamped his teeth together, squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to pull it together, to put it all in proper perspective.

Besides, that last time had been beyond his control. An accident, an addiction Daniel hadn't even considered possible. All beyond his control. He'd only climbed into that sarcophagus in the naïve belief that he'd been helping his friends. The time before, he would have been all right if it hadn't been for Jack. No, Jack had instigated that one. That one wasn't his fault.

"That time wasn't my fault," Daniel announced, finding somewhere in his soul the ability to summon his dignity. Saying it aloud somehow further reinforced it in his mind. He choked the railing with his good hand, raised himself to his full height and reiterated, "It wasn't my fault."

Even still, it didn't change the fact that he was here again in that dark place, did it?

Without realizing it, Daniel started to pace again.

The rain began to pelt him with fat, icy drops, and Daniel's teeth started chattering hard enough to make his bruised jaw ache. He stumbled to the door, reached for the handle, and stood paralyzed with apprehension at what lay on the other side of the glass. Even though his place was cluttered with disarray, he dreaded the emptiness, the hollow, vacuous feeling of the space and the equally hollow, vacuous space it left in him. In that place, warmed only by a furnace, left cold by neglect, Daniel could hardly bear the thought of the temptations that waited for him there but still he stepped inside.

Making his way to the couch, he awkwardly, with one hand, peeled off his wet shirt, grabbed the blanket draped over the armrest and wrapped it around himself before sitting down. He dropped his head against the wall with a hollow thump. He couldn't stop shaking, his hands trembling so badly he had to clasp his good hand around the casted one in an attempt to still the motions.

Closing his eyes, Daniel concentrated on breathing. Just breathing, thinking of nothing, and maybe he would start to feel better.

After a few moments, it began to work. Finally, instead of a boulder of temptation on his chest, what remained was a manageable cinder block. Raindrops ran from his hair onto his forehead, and Daniel swiped them away with a trembling hand. The fact that his hand was still trembling alarmed him—was it from the cold, or from his waning resolve?

Dragging himself from the couch, blanket still draped around his shivering body, he stumbled into the kitchen. Maybe some coffee would help. Maybe it would steady his nerves. Daniel reached for the coffee tin on the shelf only to lose his grip on it, sending it to the counter with a loud bang. Clumsily, with his left hand, he pulled off the lid and swore under his breath when he spilled coffee grounds on the already stained, tiled counter. Cursing again when he dropped the filter from the coffeemaker and spilled more grounds on the tiles, along with his feet and the floor, Daniel finally managed to get the pot filled and ready.

The machine sputtered and gurgled, coughing to begin its brew. Daniel chewed the ragged thumbnail on his injured hand, drummed the fingernails of his other hand on the surface on the counter, and bounced one foot against the floor.

"Come on, come on," he uttered, wishing the slow drip would speed up. He needed something immediately, something in his hand, something in his body. He needed.

There was the cupboard above the fridge. Inside was something he could drink while he waited. One long slow sip, that's all. That's all he needed. Then the coffee would be finished, and he could shut the cupboard door and never have to return to it.

One slow sip.

When the coffeemaker sputtered again and emitted a short hiss of steam, Daniel jumped at the sound. He realized he'd been staring at that cupboard, his body all but vibrating with tension, no, with unrelenting temptation, he hated to admit.

Forcing his gaze away, Daniel saw that the coffee had finished brewing, the dark liquid steaming in the carafe. The rich, heavy aroma permeated the air, filling his nostrils and lessening the jangling cacophony of his frazzled nerves. From the sink, he retrieved a mug that didn't look too dirty and poured himself a cup of coffee. Picking up the cup with a still trembling hand, he scarcely registered the sting of pain when the hot liquid slopped over the edge of the cup and onto his hand. He took a few quick sips, ignoring how the liquid scalded his mouth, drinking it black. It wasn't how he normally took his coffee, but the bitterness of the strong brew matched his state of mind.

Besides, all he needed was the warmth and the caffeine to calm down. He'd be fine once he'd had a few cups and settled his nerves. As he left the kitchen, Daniel couldn't resist another glance at that cupboard and the temptations it hid. Knowing what was inside offered him a strange mingling of relief and unease.

Returning to the living room, he sat down on the couch again, holding his cup carefully so he wouldn't spill. He sipped his coffee and tried to think of nothing but the sensation of the liquid warming him and the heated porcelain taking the iciness from his fingertips.

Slumping down against the cushions, his gaze fell in line with an old photo propped up on the bookcase. The edges were tattered, the colors faded and indistinct, the paper dappled with water stains. He had seen the photo so many times, he scarcely noticed it anymore, but now, for some reason, it caught his attention, thankfully diverting his mind from his physical misery.

Daniel remembered the day the photo had been taken. He couldn't have been more than seven years old. In the photo, his father was helping him build an elaborate pyramid with Lego blocks. Though he was smiling, Daniel's father looked tired, with dark shadows encircling his eyes. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, even though at the time he had probably been the same age Daniel was now.

Daniel's mother, removed from the father and son game, sat alone on the stoop to the backdoor to their home, her arms wrapped around her upraised knees, long skirt pulled tight against her legs. She wasn't looking at either of them, instead her gaze was focused somewhere in the distance at a place only she could see. Daniel always wondered about the sad, almost forlorn look on her face. What had caused it? Had she been so unhappy with her life, with the path she had chosen? Had she somehow known she wasn't long for this world, that she was somehow doomed?

Of course, Daniel had never been able to ask her, and so his mother's turmoil was indelibly captured on that piece of paper, yet forever locked in mystery.

Maybe a week before that photo was taken Daniel remembered one night, one clue to his mother's unhappiness. She had been walking so strangely around their temporary home in Egypt, sipping from a tall glass, the liquid amber in color, its smell sharp, almost bitter.

Daniel had been told to go to bed even though it hadn't been close to his bedtime, and hadn't had time to put his toys away. It confused him, the angry tone in his mother's voice, the suddenness of bedtime. He had done what he was told, but his toys remained scattered about the floor—a wall of blocks here, a highway of cars there. From inside his room, he heard his playthings being pushed and kicked out of the way, skittering across the scuffed, wooden floor. He heard his mother mumbling things, her words incoherent, the sounds percussive. Daniel rolled to his side, pulled the thin sheet over his ear, and squeezed his eyes shut.

A crash, a shattering of glass against the floor made Daniel bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding. His door swung open, and his mother, outlined by the light from the living room, filled the doorway, shouting at him, castigating him for his carelessness. Questioning him in a voice that was altogether unfamiliar and unwarranted, even to a seven-year old boy.

Her words, her anger and the way her hair fell in unkempt scrabbles across her face frightened Daniel. For the first time in his life, he was afraid of his mother. Even so, he was old enough to understand that her anger had very little to do with him, that it went much deeper, but the deep sense of betrayal bore right through him. Here was one of the two people he trusted most in the world, and Daniel could scarcely recognize her.

His mother continued to rant and shout her frustrations, her face flushed scarlet with anger and heat. The words themselves were meaningless, her inebriation and ire rendering her oblivious to her young son clamping his hands over his ears, trying not to cry out of fear and confusion.

His father had come home shortly after, and an argument immediately broke out. His mother's voice was loud, unchecked; his father's hushed, urgent. In time, his father's own temper rose, and with it, so did his voice.

It was the first and only time Daniel had ever heard them argue, and he remembered how he'd slid into the small space between his bed and the wall, huddling in the corner, wanting to disappear so he wouldn't have to listen anymore. Eventually, the shouting stopped, a door slammed, and in the dim light coming from the main room, from his hiding place, if he peered over the bed, Daniel could still see his mother's elongated shadow passing back and forth in front of his open door. In her hand, she'd held a bottle, no longer bothering with a glass. The last thing Daniel remembered from that night was his father picking him up from the floor and tucking him back in bed, the house dark and silent all around him.

The next morning, Daniel's mother had apologized to him, and had taken him to the market, promising to buy him anything he wanted, as a way of atonement, Daniel knew. They'd shared a pleasant day together, his mother over-eager in her desire to makes things up to him, and Daniel allowed himself to forget his fear from the night before, forget the stranger his mother had become, as though it had merely been a bad dream.

After a few days of his parents behaving tense and awkward with one another, they seemed happy again and life returned to normal.

His mother almost returned to normal, too, except for the evenings on the frequent nights when his father was away working late. After she'd tucked Daniel into bed, his mother started stepping out the back door, into the desert night. Sometimes Daniel would sneak from his bed to peer out the window at her, wondering what she was doing. She never went far though, either sitting on the stoop reading or working from the dim backdoor light, or simply gazing at the sky, but always sipping that amber-colored drink.

When she'd return to check that Daniel was still in bed, she'd smell of the desert air, and even more strongly of something both acrid and frightening. Daniel would force himself not to wrinkle his nose or turn away when she'd sloppily lean down to kiss him goodnight. He'd hated that smell, and could never understand the allure of what those tall bottles held. Even after his parents let him have sips of champagne at their museum openings or the swallows of wine they'd give him with dinner on special occasions. When they'd laugh at him and indulgently ruffle his hair when it made him giggle or feel dizzy, he still didn't understand it.

When they died, he understood even less.

By the time Daniel was twelve he stopped trying to understand. He'd been in a succession of homes—kind but temporary families, or caretakers who were completely indifferent. Daniel became a package to be passed around, and he became inured to all the changes. There was no structure, no permanence, only survival and making it through one day to the next, from one family to the next.

And then the Davies came into the rotation. From the moment Daniel was introduced to Graham and Dolores Davies, a strange, ominous feeling overcame him. It was no longer possible to simply exist without understanding, without caring what happened to him. Somehow, Daniel knew, nothing would ever be the same.

Mr. Davies was a financial consultant, and their large, well-decorated home spoke of his success. His wife, Dolores, was a housewife who seemed to pass the days in a fog of despondency. The Davies had never been able to have children of their own, and Mr. Davies explained to Daniel that it was their moral Christian duty to help those less fortunate than themselves. They had taken in other foster children in the past, but no mention was made of why those children no longer lived there.

The Davies had appeared outwardly nice—Mr. Davies had even flirted charmingly with Daniel's social worker when she'd dropped him off. The man had put on a friendly and cheerful face, only Daniel noticed the wide smile never reached his eyes. In fact, Graham Davies had the coldest eyes Daniel had even seen. Colorless, expressionless—like chips of ice. Dolores seemed kind but timid, standing slightly behind her husband, waiting until she was prompted to speak.

Once Daniel's social worker had left, Daniel could feel an underlying tension in the air. Mr. Davies, as the man had immediately instructed Daniel to call him, studied Daniel with such intensity that Daniel began to fidget, uncomfortable under that icy gaze. Dolores thankfully came to Daniel's rescue and offered to show him his room, gently steering him around her husband and up the stairs to a large bedroom. The room was painted sky blue and filled with sturdy oak furniture, and the walls were decorated with Norman Rockwell prints. Daniel wasn't sure if that were a good sign or bad sign.

It didn't take long for Daniel to understand that Mr. Davies kept his household under a tight rein of control. As long as Daniel and Dolores did everything exactly the way Mr. Davies dictated, things were somewhat tolerable. On the days when nothing seemed to please the man, they both fell under his barrage of constant criticism, under his petulant browbeating. No action, or comment, however well intentioned and harmless, escaped ridicule.

Throughout his time in foster care, Daniel had always been told that he had impeccable manners. Even though he was only twelve, he could already speak five languages more of less fluently, yet Mr. Davies somehow had the ability to make Daniel feel as though he were some illiterate Dickensian street urchin plucked from the streets. For the first time in his life, Daniel felt stupid and clumsy, his confidence diminishing with each day he spent under that roof.

Some nights, the sounds of Mr. Davies' shouting voice and Dolores' muted sobs kept Daniel awake. The following mornings, Dolores was somehow even more subdued, her body hunched over as though she were trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible. Sometimes Daniel thought he saw bruises on her arms, but most of the time, she kept her long sleeves pulled down well below her wrists, even on warm days.

Most evenings, Mr. Davies didn't return home from work until 6:00pm, offering Daniel some freedom in between school and that time. Dolores was usually sitting at the kitchen table when Daniel came in, reading a paperback romance novel, her hands gripping her coffee cup a little too tightly, the preparations for dinner already laid out on the counter. She'd smile at him and greet him with a cheery hello, but the constant nervousness never left her eyes.

Daniel liked Dolores. She was kind and quiet, and she asked him questions about Egypt, about the world, about the places other than the home she and her husband shared. Daniel answered all her questions, and in his mind asked some of his own.

Daniel liked to watch her small hands while she made dinner—the competence of her work with a knife and a potato, the speed with which she cut meat. He loved the way she ground herbs in her palm, offered them to him to smell, explaining which herb went best with which type of food. She'd smile, crinkle her nose, and wipe the flakes into the food.

The times when he would help her prepare dinner, they would talk of many things, but the conversation never strayed to any topic more personal than the latest books each was reading, or Dolores' love for her herb garden.

As soon as Mr. Davies returned home, he brought with him an aura of tension and nervous energy. Dolores' friendly chatter would fade, and she'd direct her full attention to the preparation of the evening meal.

Most of those interminable meals were very much the same—Mr. Davies would come into the dining room, take his seat while Dolores served him his meal, poured him a drink before sitting down herself. No one would speak until they were halfway through their meal.

That's how it went, night after night, but Daniel couldn't help but feel there was something brewing, percolating inside Mr. Davies. He didn't know what it was, but with each passing, silent meal, the tension thickened.

And then one night, the tension came to a slow boil.

Daniel didn't speak; he took pains not to tap his silverware too loudly against his plate. He felt those arctic-cold eyes on him. He didn't dare look up—maybe if he remained quiet Mr. Davies would become distracted. Dolores tried to begin a conversation with her husband, but he merely harrumphed and ignored her, never taking his eyes off the young boy sitting defenselessly between them. Finally, after taking a few bites of his food and chewing thoroughly, Mr. Davies turned to Daniel. "How was school today, Dan?"

No matter how many times Daniel tried to explain that he preferred being called by his full name, the man continually insisted on shortening it. "Fine," Daniel answered, his eyes fixed on his plate.

"That's not a proper answer."

"My day was fine, thank you," Daniel said, keeping his voice soft to conceal his dismay and to cover the niggling understanding that this dinner would turn out like so many others. Suddenly, he seemed to lose his appetite.

"How was your math exam?" Mr. Davies directed his full focus on him. "And sit up straight in your chair. How many times do I have to remind you of that?"

Daniel shifted. Pulled himself up a little taller in his seat even though he didn't think he had been slouching. "It was pretty easy. I think I did all right."

"You think you did well."

Daniel blinked at the man's unwavering stare, uncertain what he meant.

Mr. Davies shook his head in frustration, or disgust, even. "The correct reply is, 'I think I did well.'"

"Oh… um…" Daniel's brows knitted in a frown, he glanced back down at his plate.

"Finish what you were saying," Mr. Davies said, waving his hand in an impatient manner.

"Well… I... uh—"

"And look at me when you are speaking."

Daniel took a deep breath, raised his eyes and forced himself to look at Mr. Davies, however uncomfortable it felt. "It was nothing really. Math isn't my best subject, but logarithms are easy to understand," Daniel said, speaking rapidly, anxious to get the words out before he could be corrected again.

"Don't slur—you sound like you have a lisp, for God's sakes," Mr. Davies said in his clipped, nasal tone. "And if you'd quit reading so much of that fairy tale nonsense, and worked a little harder on your math, you'd be doing much better."

Daniel nodded, not in agreement, but hoping his acquiescence would make the man leave him alone again. If Mr. Davies would just leave him alone, then maybe his hands would maybe stop shaking, something they did more and more, and if his hands would stop shaking then maybe he could cut through the tough piece of gristle in his pork chops. The meat proved too tough, and his knife slipped from his hand, clattered to the plate with a loud crash, skittered to the table and onto the floor.

Mr. Davies jumped at the sound, threw down his napkin, his eyes flashing with anger. "God dammit! What the _**hell**_ is the matter with you?" He flung his hand in Daniel's direction, sneering when the boy flinched. "I have never seen anyone so clumsy, so stupid-"

Daniel sat paralyzed in his chair, while Dolores reached for the knife under the table, then stood from her chair. "Graham, it's all right. It was just an accident, I'll-"

"What did I tell you about interrupting me?" The man's gaze flew to his wife, his body tensed, like a coil ready to spring.

Daniel sucked in a breath, shocked at the icy fury in Davies' gaze, at the anger directed toward Dolores. Afraid for her, Daniel tried to distract the man despite his own fear and suddenly racing heart. "I-I'm sorry, sir. I won't let it happen again."

Without ever taking his arctic gaze from his wife's pallid face, Mr. Davies ground out through clenched teeth, "Dan, go to the kitchen, close the door and remain there until I call you."

Daniel glanced at Dolores and his eyes widened when he saw the undisguised terror on her face. She had sat back down, eyes downcast, lips pressed tightly together as though she were fighting tears. Daniel forced himself to look Davies in the eye once more.

"Mr. Davies, I... I'm really sorry," he tried again, not wanting to leave Dolores alone. "I _was_ being clumsy. Wasn't paying attention. I mean, I-I've always been clumsy," he lied, stammering out anything to appease the man, "I don't… don't mean to... I-I'll just get-"

"Dan, if you know what's good for you, do as you're told."

Unable to defy the low, dangerous tone, Daniel reluctantly slid from his chair. He tried to catch Dolores' eye, offer her a show of sympathy, but she wouldn't look at him and her eyes remained fixed on her lap. Daniel stepped into the kitchen pulling the door shut behind him, his heart pounding with fear, with worry for Dolores. He pressed close to the door, straining to hear what was going on in the dining room but all he could make out were low, hushed whispers. Resisting the urge to peek out, Daniel started to pace the large kitchen, chewing his ragged thumbnail, torn with indecision. Glancing at the phone on the counter, he wondered if he should call someone, but whom could he call? Would the police even listen to him? He steeled himself for the possibility of having to come to Dolores' sole aid if he thought the man was hurting her, but he didn't want to make things worse for her. For either of them.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he heard Davies call his name. Daniel took a deep breath and took the first tentative step out of the kitchen. A split second before making a terrible mistake, he rushed back into the kitchen and to the cutlery drawer, and careful not to make any noise, slid open the drawer and took out a clean knife. Nudging open the kitchen door, he crept back to the dining room table.

He kept his focus on Dolores and saw that she was shaking, her face ashen, eyes swollen and red. In fact, she was shaking so hard, Daniel wondered how she could remain upright in her chair. He darted a fearful glance at Davies but the man had resumed eating his meal.

Daniel sat down at the table, the tension so thick he was afraid to breathe. He realized he was clutching the knife so tight in his hand, his knuckles were bleached white and the metal edges dug into his palm.

Davies looked at him and Daniel braced himself.

"Did I tell you to bring another knife back from the kitchen, Dan?" the man inquired, his voice deceptively casual.

Daniel blinked, unsure how to answer, uncertain if there even _was_ a correct answer. "Uh, I-I just thought-"

"That's not what I asked you, is it?"

Daniel took a shaky breath, then shook his head. "No, sir."

"What did I ask you?"

"Um, you asked… if… if I – I-"

Davies dismissed the boy's stammering with an irritated wave of his hand. "Bring that knife back to the kitchen and then return to your seat."

Daniel blinked again in confusion. When he looked at Dolores, he saw a tear run down her face and drip onto her lap. She met his gaze and silently implored him not to challenge Davies any further. After a moment, Daniel did as he was told, his thoughts whirling, disjointed. Whatever game the man was playing, Daniel just wished, prayed for it to end.

When Daniel came back to his chair, Davies pursed his lips, studied his wife for a long moment.

"Dolores, the boy needs a new knife."

When she could muster the courage to meet his eyes, Dolores stared at her husband in stunned disbelief, then the incredulity faded to hurt. She shot from her chair, swiping a hand over her face. When she returned with Daniel's knife and placed it with a wildly trembling hand beside his plate and sat down again, Davies appraised her with a smug, satisfied expression on his features.

Daniel's stomach churned as he listened to Dolores choking back sobs, while Davies calmly, almost cheerfully finished his meal, mopping up the gravy on his plate with a slice of bread. He complimented Dolores on her cooking before filling his mouth with more food. Daniel and Dolores, stunned and shaking, were unable to eat. What would be the point? Daniel wondered. His stomach was full, not of food, but of acid. He hated that feeling, more than anything. Hated the paralyzing fear, the nausea of dread.

He hated the way he felt when he was around Mr. Davies. Every other place he went people told Daniel he was smart, that he was a good kid. Why couldn't Mr. Davies see the same thing?

Daniel thought he tried hard to get good grades. He thought he did everything the Davies asked. No, he _did._ He was, for all intents and purposes, a good kid. But Mr. Davies never saw it.

So maybe, after all, it wasn't Daniel. Maybe it wasn't Dolores. Maybe, Daniel began to realize, it was Mr. Davies. Was it possible that Mr. Davies was just a bully in a business suit? Daniel knew some bullies at school. By and large they left him alone, not because of his size, but because he ignored them, and when that didn't work, Daniel would look them in the eye and calmly tell them to get lost. Could it be that easy with Mr. Davies? It couldn't hurt to try. No more than the pain he felt by sitting in silence, afraid to breathe.

Something inside him steeled, and he felt his back straighten. He placed his cutlery to the side of his plate and folded his hands in his lap. His focus, as clear and unobstructed as it had ever been, fell steadfast on Mr. Davies' cold eyes.

Mr. Davies shoveled another hunk of meat into his mouth and glanced at the boy, began slicing through more of his dinner, and then stopped. He looked up at Daniel's face, paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. He stared hard at the boy, challenged him to look away, and yet Daniel held his focus. That had never happened before. Mr. Davies was taken aback. He blinked and his cold, calculated mask slipped just a little, and behind it, Daniel, with a note of triumph, saw the uncertainty that wavered there. The man then cleared his throat, narrowed his eyes, the doubt vanishing, cruel assessing expression firmly back in place, but that small moment was enough for Daniel.

Davies waved his fork in Daniel's direction before he spoke again, "Your dinner's getting cold. Eat."

Not another word was spoken during that meal. Not another glance was exchanged. But something had changed, maybe nothing cataclysmic, and maybe for the worse, but Daniel knew he wouldn't allow his fear to get the best of him anymore.

When the meal was finally over, Daniel helped Dolores clear the table. He dried the dishes while she washed. Neither of them spoke. Dolores' posture was so rigid it seemed as though she'd shatter into thousands of pieces if she let down her guard and allowed her emotions to show. Daniel kept his motions slow, kept giving her worried glances, but he wasn't sure if Dolores was even aware he was in the same room.

Once the kitchen was cleaned, Daniel reluctantly followed Dolores to the living room to join Mr. Davies for some 'quality time,' as the man referred to it. Daniel felt he'd had his share of the man for one evening, and wanted nothing more than to escape to his room and lose himself in one of his books, but knew he was expected to participate in Mr. Davies' facade of a happy family.

Daniel took his usual place in the armchair in the back corner, as far away from Mr. Davies as he could possibly sit while still remaining in the same room.

The drone of the TV was a constant soundtrack to the reverberating tension in the room. Mr. Davies read his Wall Street Journal, scarcely even glancing up at the television. Daniel wondered why, if the man was reading, did he and Dolores have to watch the show, but he knew it was better to keep quiet, to keep his thoughts to himself. This was their tradition of family, anyway, or so it seemed—Mr. Davies would read, Daniel would ruminate, and Dolores would work on her embroidery.

The perfect picture of familial gatherings, if one didn't look too deep beneath the surface.

In the far corner, Daniel stared at the newspaper, sending daggers of hate through the thin sheets. Hate for his dinner being ruined, hate for how the man had made him feel all these months, hate for the confining, controlling rules he was forced to live under. Hate for it all. So absorbed in his silent defiance, Daniel didn't notice that another person in the room had not yet managed to shake the effects of the night's dinner. He was so busy making his own personal list of the injustices he had had to endure in the last months that he didn't see the other person who had endured much more for much longer. Not until he thought he'd share a look of disdain with Dolores, hope she'd just roll her eyes, like she was sometimes known to do. Shrug her shoulder, convey her understanding and the futility of it all in one gesture.

But she didn't share his expression. At the very least, he expected to see her attempt to offer him a smile, the kind she often did—an apologetic, meager thing. It was all part of the picture. But she didn't smile. She didn't even look at him. Not tonight.

Tonight, something was very wrong with that picture. Something was wrong with Dolores.

Something worse than how she was during dinner. What was it? At first glance, he couldn't tell. She was pale, but no more pale than usual. She sat, her knees locked, her back straight, a box of embroidery thread balanced on top of her sewing basket at her side. But something was different, and he couldn't quite ascertain what it was. So he watched her while she poked a needle through the back of the cloth, drew the string through, and then poked it back down. Over and over, hardly blinking. Daniel had marveled at the meticulous work many times. The pattern, so elaborate and intricate, held taut in its round frame. Daniel had picked it up once and found that the back was almost as pristine as the front, save for a grid of miniscule knots.

And here she was again, laboring over the design, but something was different. Something had changed. Daniel kept his eyes on her, watched the mechanical movement of her hand, in and out, the needle piercing the material, the thread sailing behind, back to front, front to back.

And that's when he noticed. That's when it became clear.

The back.

That was it. Threads drooped loose. Threads rounded over the frame. Threads bound against each other, a continuous loop up through the same hole, down through an adjacent hole. And at the edge, a blot of something red seeped through the cloth. Daniel focused on the light blue embroidery floss Dolores was using, and understood the flaw in her studied posture—with each pass, Dolores pushed the needle through the tip of her thumb, and with each pass, the light blue became more stained with blood.

Daniel shot a quick look at Davies, found him slack-jawed and snoring in his armchair, the newspaper drooped in his lap. Daniel pressed himself from his own chair, padded over to Dolores, and put his hand on her arm. She barely noticed. Daniel wrapped his hand around her fingers, pulled the frame from her tightly clenched grip. With her other hand, Dolores let go of the needle and thread and it fell into her lap, tracing a faint line of red against her gray skirt.

Daniel held her focus and tucked the needlework into her sewing basket. She blinked but showed no other reaction. Daniel took a tissue from his pocket and pressed it to her thumb.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a quiet voice, trying to read any expression in Dolores' dazed hazel eyes. When she didn't answer, Daniel called her name in a hushed, urgent whisper.

After a long, silent moment, Dolores' gaze shifted away from his. She blinked a few times, as though waking from a deep sleep. "Do you have homework to do?" she said in a barely audible voice.

Daniel shook his head. Dolores blinked again, her face lax, expression dull. "I think it's time for bed."

Dolores moved to straighten her hair, but her hand paused in mid-air, as though the limb had forgotten what she had had intended to do, then allowed her hand to drop in her lap again.

"Are you sure y—" Daniel began, his worry increasing.

"Sleep well, Daniel."

"But—"

"Shhh. Best not to wake Mr. Davies."

He thought he should say something reassuring to her at that moment. It felt odd that he, the kid, should be reassuring the adult, but Dolores seemed lost, frighteningly so. She wasn't even really looking at him. More like through him, to some dark, distant place. Daniel worried his lower lip between his teeth, stole a glance at the sleeping man, and nodded.

"Okay," he whispered, letting go of her hand. Apparently, Dolores hadn't learned the lesson he had taught himself about Davies, and Daniel somehow knew Dolores was in no shape to be taught that lesson. Somehow he also knew that it was safer for him and for Dolores if he retreated to the relative sanctuary of his room. There would be other battles, there always were. This one was over.

Daniel stole away to his room, creeping along the sides of the stairway, hoping not to find the loose, creaking board. His thoughts flew from the Davies' home and to his past, a million miles away. A lifetime ago.

He opened to door to his bedroom, an expensively furnished place of false comforts that was no more a part of him than he to Egypt anymore. Daniel wondered if his parents somehow knew what had become of his life. He wondered where he'd be now if they were still alive. Sitting on the floor, leaning his back on the edge of a bed that had been assigned to him, rather than offered to him, he wondered. Would he be in Egypt with the desert sand rather than suburbs surrounding him? Pyramids and the sounds of Arabic filling the air instead of angry, bewildered silence? Somehow he thought so. Somehow he'd go back, somehow he'd escape from this life thrust upon him. Somehow he'd live the life he was meant to live.

While the day's light abandoned the room, Daniel sat on the hard, braided rug that protected gleaming, cold, oak hardwood flooring. He sat, uncomfortable, yet never moving, and wished yet another day away, promising himself that things would change, that he'd find a way to escape.

Somehow, he'd find a way to leave it all behind.

* * *

tbc 


	6. Scattered Reflections pt 2

Sorry, we've only been able to post a few chapters at a time without things going wonky on here, so please bear with us... And here's a few more chapters...

* * *

Scattered Reflections part 2

* * *

There were eggshells on which to walk those next few days, but nothing of significance happened. Dolores was somewhat quieter, the small bandage on her thumb the only reminder of what had transpired a few nights ago. An odd calm washed over the house, strangely peaceful, but unsettling. The calm before another storm. Even so, with the rigid tension gone, at least for the time being, Daniel found he could once again concentrate on his one true passion—reading.

The escape his varied books offered him was like the return of an old friend. The written words describing worlds so far removed from Daniel's own as to be another planet, allowed him to pass the next few days in peace and temporary refuge, until one night, the calm passed and the incipient storm once again caught him by surprise.

When Daniel entered the living room with his father's journal in hand that night, and sat down in his usual chair in the corner, just like the last few nights, Mr. Davies didn't even glance up from his newspaper, and Dolores kept her focus on her needlepoint project. The red-dappled threads had since been removed, the back of the frame once more neat and tidy, as though Dolores' fugue-state handiwork had never occurred. Only when Daniel took a long, close look at the pattern, he could still see a faint, pink-tinged stain marring the beautiful work. Dolores had tried to cover it up by adding extra stitches, but once he saw the flaw, he couldn't stop seeing it.

Daniel paged through his father's journal, found where he had last left off. Within minutes Daniel immersed himself in his father's writings, the final entry made only one day before his death. Daniel had been doing some research of his own to be able to understand his father's findings and theories. A mystery was gradually unveiling, and with an exhilarating sense of accomplishment, Daniel found he was already beginning to understand some of the cryptic words. He only wished there were someone around who cared about the significance of his research, someone who could share his enthusiasm.

"What are you reading?"

The Egyptian word for freedom kept popping up in his father's writing, and Daniel's skin lit with excitement.

"I said," Mr. Davies repeated, "what are you reading?"

Daniel glanced up at the sound of Mr. Davies' voice. "Just my father's journal."

"It's just nonsense, more like it." The same old conjecture, Daniel thought. He knew Davies was saying it just to get a rise out of him, just like the bullies at school did, only with simpler words.

Nope. Not this time, he thought. It wasn't going to work.

Daniel continued reading, although the words failed to register meaning anymore, the comprehension of the symbols no longer vivid. He kept his voice calm, and said, "This is my father's journal from one of his last expeditions in Egypt."

Mr. Davies harrumphed, folded over his newspaper with a sharp snap of the pages. "Knowing about the ancient Egyptians will get you nowhere in life, son. I want you to put that away and read the newspaper." He picked up the financial section from the footstool in front of him and tossed the pages to Daniel. "There's nothing to be learned from those old books. The future is now. The only thing that counts in this world is money, young man. You can't make any money unless you know what's happening in the world right now, not 500 years ago."

Daniel let the fold of paper settle on his legs, resolute not to touch it. Deflecting the hurtful words about himself was one thing; hearing his father's reputation being challenged was something else. From somewhere deep in his aching soul, Daniel found the courage to defend his mother and father. Daniel crushed his teeth together, forcing himself not to give into his anger and pitiful sadness, and said, "The Egyptian were around 3,000 years ago."

"Are you contradicting me?"

_Well, yes,_ Daniel thought, but he saw no point in arguing. However, he wouldn't let Mr. Davies besmirch his father's name, either, nor the history of a people Daniel felt closer to than the man sitting across from him. He didn't want to fight with the man, but he knew from past experience that nothing he could say at this point would end the conversation. Once Mr. Davies started in on him, Daniel knew there was nothing to do but to ride it out. Acquiescing for the sake of time, he simply said, "No."

"No, what?"

"No, sir," Daniel said after a moment, refusing to meet the man's unnerving gaze and futilely longing for the quiet of only a few moments ago.

Davies stared at the boy, watching for an opening to attack yet again, searching for that defiant gleam he had seen at the dinner table a few nights ago. Defiance that needed to be vanquished. Davies's gaze was appraising, searching for a weakness the way a predator studies its prey.

Daniel tried not to fidget under the scrutiny, and finally dismissing him as an easy mark, or more likely, Daniel thought, as insignificant, Mr. Davies redirected his attention to his paper, glanced up and down the columns of his paper once again. He read for a moment and without even glancing at Daniel, said, "Now, why do you keep reading that garbage?"

"I'm studying it."

"Studying it," Mr. Davies scoffed. "For what?"

"Because it's interesting, and…" Daniel started, but just as quickly clamped his mouth shut. Why waste his breath? And maybe if he didn't offer the man too much information, Mr. Davies would tire of the conversation and return to his paper. Or so Daniel could hope.

"And, what?" Mr. Davies asked, crumpling the newspaper into his lap.

Daniel fought to conceal his growing apprehension. "N-nothing, sir. I'm just studying it."

"No, there's more," Mr. Davies said, crossing his legs and peering at Daniel. "You started to say something. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's cowardice. If you have something to say, Dan, then say it."

Daniel felt his skin twitch with nervousness, his eyelids fluttering rapidly. "I-if... if I work ahead in my other classes, my guidance counselor says I can get a scholarship in a few years."

"Scholarship for what?" Mr. Davies crowed, slapping open his paper. "Studying something someone wrote thousands of years ago? What benefit is that for your future? And scholarships are extremely difficult to get, son. Many students—all of them much smarter than you, my boy—are applying for those same scholarships, and I have to add, they come from much better stock than yours." Satisfied that he had struck what would surely have to be a blow to the boy's over-inflated sense of intelligence, Mr. Davies creased the paper in half and pinched the fold. "Connections are what get you ahead in this world—not charity. My influence may benefit you in that regard, but I won't help you to continue with that nonsense."

"It's not nonsense," Daniel protested, knowing he was setting himself up for further ridicule, but he wasn't going to back down now—especially after having been called a coward. No way. He took a deep breath and continued, "My guidance counselor said I have a good chance at many scholarships. She even showed me some applications."

Mr. Davies shook his head, closing his eyes briefly in annoyance. "Well, your guidance counselor is as big a fool as you are," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Now, it's true, given your…parental circumstances, you may be able to get a small scholarship that may see you through the first year or so, if you're lucky. But for what? If you manage to complete your studies, you'll have learned a useless profession that won't earn you enough money to support a dog, let alone yourself."

"My parents did all right," he said in what he hoped was a confident sounding voice. "They were highly respected in their field, and they—"

"Well, the way I see it, their profession didn't seem to get them very far, now did it?" Mr. Davies arched an eyebrow at the boy, peering over his paper. His thin upper lip curled in a faint, but victorious smile at the undisguised shock then dismay passing Daniel's features. Time to drive the point home and rid the boy of this sudden insolence. "I believe they were killed fiddling around with one of their frivolous adventures."

"Graham…" Mrs. Davies whispered, taken aback by the level of cruelty in her husband's words. For his part, Mr. Davies disregarded his wife.

"Th-that w-was an... an a-accident," Daniel said in a low, wavering voice, inwardly cursing himself for stammering, for letting on that the man was getting to him. Just like he always did. Mr. Davies ignored him, returned to his reading material. Daniel wanted to rip the paper from his hands, shove it in his face. Instead, he forced back his anger and his hurt. He tried to return to the section in the journal he'd been reading. Tried to return to his escape, but nothing he did would still the rage and pain inside. "If my father were still alive-"

"Well, your father is dead. It's time to get over that," Davies said, rattling his newspaper, creating a breeze. Daniel was sure he felt that cold air scrape through his empty and aching heart. Daniel sat breathless with stunned shock, profoundly wounded by Mr. Davies' words. Mr. Davies, however, continued on. "So, I might add, are all the pharaohs. If that doesn't tell you something right there, I don't know what will," he said, scowling over the top of his newspaper. Dolores sat with her fingers pressed to her lips, the blood drained from her features.

Daniel's cheeks burned with humiliation and self-doubt at the casually spoken words. Any other time, those few sentences would be enough to shatter all Daniel's dreams and hopes for escape. He was determined not to let it happen on this night.

_I'm a good kid,_ he reminded himself. _I'm smart. _His stomach churned with tension. Fear and anger simultaneously washed over him. No, he told himself, _my parents weren't foolish, and what they did wasn't nonsense._ It couldn't be true. The man was just trying to upset him, and Daniel wasn't going to let the scathing words get to him. It couldn't be true. He knew what Davies was doing. Daniel saw him do it to Dolores all the time. No, he wasn't going to listen, wasn't going to allow the man to beat him down anymore. _It doesn't matter what he says…_

"Dan, what did I just tell you?"

Daniel gritted his teeth, ducked his head lower to the pages and wished the man would leave him the hell alone. "You told me to read the newspaper," he muttered without looking up.

"And?"

Daniel paused a moment, marshalling his courage before he spoke. "And I'll read it later." He knew he was pushing it, could all but feel the growing anger radiating from Mr. Davies, but couldn't seem to stop himself. In truth, he was surprised to discover that it felt good to challenge the man so openly.

Mr. Davies stared at him, his pale eyes somehow growing even colder. He fastidiously folded his paper, smoothed the front page as he set it beside him. Sliding to the edge of his recliner, he held out his hand.

"Hand me that book, right now."

Daniel tried to ignore the instant panic filling him and forced himself to look the man in the eye.

"No, sir." Daniel was aware that he was stepping over a line, risking god only knew how much punishment, but he would not back down. Some things were worth fighting for. At some point in his life, Daniel told himself, he had to stand up for what was important to him. Come what may, he knew he had reached that point.

"Dan, I said, give me that book."

"It was my father's—"

"I know it was your father's. When you learn to do as you're told and show the proper respect, you'll get it back." Davies glared at Daniel, hard and long, a dangerous, tightly controlled fury lighting his pale eyes.

Daniel, holding steadfast in his newfound allegiance to himself, stared back.

"Now, are you going to give it to me," Mr. Davies held out his hand further, "or do I have to come over there and take it from you?"

Daniel set his jaw in a stubborn line, returned his attention to the book. Though his hands were trembling so hard the pages rattled, he pretended to read and simply said, "I'm not giving it to you."

Dolores watched the exchange with fearful eyes. She lifted a hand in an ineffectual gesture, slid forward in her chair.

Davies darted his head in Dolores' direction, pointed a warning finger. Dolores seemed to wilt and sagged back in her chair, only her widened eyes moving back and forth between her husband and Daniel.

Daniel resisted the urge to look at Dolores and kept his eyes fixed on his father's handwriting. The hastily scrawled words had become meaningless shapes, but somehow, they offered him courage. Before he even had time to react, Mr. Davies loomed over him, snatching at the journal. The man was able to move far more quickly than Daniel would have suspected—like a cobra striking. Daniel scrambled from his chair, grasping the book as tight as he could to his chest. Mr. Davies grabbed onto the bottom corner of the journal, and a frenetic tug of war ensued.

Daniel stumbled and heard a terrible ripping sound when the book was wrenched from his hands.

Mr. Davies held it up, the binding from the leather cover nearly torn off, the pages bent and wrinkled from their struggle.

"You didn't have to ruin it!" Daniel shouted, his eyes filling with angry, helpless tears.

Without warning, the flat of Mr. Davies's hand struck Daniel's cheek, snapping his head to the side. The force of the blow and subsequent explosion of pain caught him by surprise, and Daniel stumbled backward, falling over the armrest of the chair and landing in a tangle on the seat.

"Don't you ever use that tone with me," Davies growled. He grabbed the boy by the upper arm and hauled him roughly to his feet. Pointing a long finger in Daniel's face, Davies added. "Do you understand?"

Daniel struggled with all his might not to cry out from the added pain of the bruising grip on his arm. Keeping his head averted so the man wouldn't see the tears brimming in his eyes, Daniel fought to pull his arm free. Mr. Davies only tightened his grip, and this time Daniel couldn't stop a yelp from escaping his lips.

Dolores gasped at the sound of Daniel's cry and he shot her a frantic, silent plea for help. She pressed her hands against the armrests of her chair as if to stand, but then stopped, seemingly paralyzed with fear. Daniel understood, but at the same time, he felt a sting of betrayal almost as sharp as the blow to his face.

"You'd better answer me, right now, young man," Davies growled. The words were punctuated with a brisk shake, as though Daniel were a misbehaving dog. "I asked if you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Daniel choked out through gritted teeth, closing his eyes to trap the hot, burning tears.

"And your book wouldn't have gotten torn if you had done as you were told. Maybe you'll think about that the next time you decide to behave like a stubborn little brat." Mr. Davies released his iron grip, giving Daniel a hard shove in the direction of the stairs. "Now get up to your room. I don't want to see or hear from you for the rest of the night."

Daniel stumbled toward the steps before righting himself. When he turned once more to silently plead with Dolores to support him, all Daniel received was a mouthed "Go." Betrayed yet again, Daniel watched as the man returned to his recliner, tucked Daniel's book beside him, picked up his paper again, and began to calmly read, as though nothing had transpired. Dolores retrieved her needlepoint, which had at some point fallen to the carpet by her feet. She held the frame in her lap, gazing down with tear-filled eyes at the pattern blurring into a watery kaleidoscope of color.

Even though he was trembling from head to foot, his cheek stinging, arm throbbing in time with his racing pulse, Daniel forced himself to stand his ground and took a few steps closer to Davies. He refused to cry even though his vision was blurred from the tears in his eyes. "Look… I… I won't read it anymore, I promise. Please, m-my father left that to me. It's…it's…" the last words faded, choked when his throat tightened with emotion. _It's all I have left of him._

Mr. Davies raised an eyebrow again, but didn't bother to look at him. "Dan, if you ever want to see your book again, I suggest you go to your room now."

Daniel glanced again at Dolores, but she kept her attention on her needlepoint, the frame shaking tremulously. He wanted to scream with frustration, with the sense of injustice. He knew any further protest would only make things worse, so he turned away, refusing to rub his burning cheek and bruised upper arm. He made his way up the stairs, his back rigid, shoulders trembling with tension.

As soon as he was in his room, the tears began to fall, his chest tight and aching from the withheld emotions, his breath coming in hitched, barely suppressed sobs. He cupped his hand to his still burning cheek and took deep breaths, trying to calm down.

Daniel vowed to get his journal back, somehow. Even if he had steal it back. He refused to allow the man's words to sway him. It was true, Daniel's counselor had told him he'd be able to get any number of scholarships, and in that moment, Daniel also vowed that not only would he get one scholarship, he'd get multiple scholarships, just to spite the man. He'd go to college, work his ass off, get a degree, maybe two. He'd graduate, become successful and rich and famous. He'd buy a house much nicer than this one, and he'd show Mr. Davies just who was full of garbage and nonsense.

He could do it if he just worked hard enough. If circumstances only allowed him the chance. Daniel angrily swiped the tears from his face, held his breath a moment to stifle the sobs still wanting to come.

_I'm smart. My parents were smart. I'm smarter than Davies will ever be. It doesn't matter what he says, because nothing he says is true. I __**will**__ prove him wrong, _the newly defiant voice in his mind spoke up with sudden determination.

He had a plan, but first he'd have to stop crying like some scared little kid, and the only way he could think to stop was to get out of that place. He needed, more than anything else, to escape, to forget.

Darting a glance at his closed door, Daniel went over to the window, pushed it up, and carefully climbed outside onto the small overhang of roof. Reaching for the large tree branch close to the roof's edge, he swung himself onto the sturdy oak, clambered down and ran across the street, heading for the park halfway down the block. Escaping.

He passed by the baseball field, spotted five teenaged kids hanging around by the bleachers. If he kept going, maybe they wouldn't notice him.

"Hey, look! It's the little dweeb in our math class!" a male, pubescent voice shouted, the owner of which pointing at him.

The four other kids—a taller, blonde boy and three girls—turned in his direction, and Daniel froze, cursing, a wave of dread racing through him.

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" the same boy chanted in a sing-songy voice.

Daniel glared at the kids, and a strange combination of anger and weariness filled him. Weariness from ridicule, from the fact that he could never seem to escape the bullying, the constant reminder that he didn't fit in anywhere.

"Leave him alone, Brian. He's just a little kid," one of the girls said, offering Daniel a friendly smile. Maybe she could sense that he wasn't going to buckle under their words, or maybe she only felt sorry for him.

"Come on over here, kid," the other taller, fair-haired boy said.

Daniel nervously licked his lips, stole a quick glance behind him. Maybe there was still a chance to get away from them. To not have to deal with any of this. He wondered if he made a break for it, would they chase after him? Even if he did get away, would he be able to live it down in school the next day? That thought made him take a deep breath and face whatever would happen next.

When he stepped closer, he saw that the kids were drinking beer, the yeasty smell heavy in the cool night air, two empty six packs already cluttering the bleacher steps behind them. The girl took a drag from her cigarette and offered it to him.

Daniel shook his head, his cheeks flaming. "N-no thank you."

The two boys guffawed. "Nuh-nuh-nuh-no thank you," Brian imitated in a mocking falsetto.

Daniel glared at the older boy. After what he'd just put up with from Mr. Davies, the teasing was too childish to even phase him. "What do you guys want, anyway?"

Brian started to jeer at Daniel some more, but the blonde boy elbowed him. "Shut up, man. You're scaring the kid," he said in the infinite superiority of one all of fifteen-years old.

Daniel crossed his arms over his chest, raised his chin. "I'm not scared," he said, trying unsuccessfully to pitch his voice a little lower.

"Good." The boy clapped him hard enough on the shoulder to make him stumble a few steps back. "'Cause we aren't gonna bite'cha. What's your name again, kid? I'm Steve."

"Daniel."

"What happened to your face?" Steve asked, craning his neck to get a better look in the dim light. Clearly outlined on Daniel's cheek was a bright red slash. Daniel's hand flew to the spot.

"Nothing," he said.

Steve nodded and decided to leave it alone. He popped open a beer can and thrust it toward Daniel. "You want one?"

When Daniel merely blinked at it, Steve lightly thumped the can against Daniel's chest. "Go on, take it." Eyeing Daniel's blotchy complexion and puffy, bloodshot eyes, a flicker of sympathy, of unspoken understanding passed Steve's face. "You look like you could use one."

The girl who had spoken to Daniel earlier looked at Steve wide-eyed. "He's just a kid, Steve..."

Daniel glanced at her, but reluctantly accepted the can. Five pairs of eyes fixed on him, so he took a cautious sip. He tried not to shudder at the bitter taste, then took another longer swallow. He nearly choked, suppressed a cough, much to the kids' amusement. They laughed, drank from their own beers and renewed their conversation, accepting him in their ranks as though he'd passed some rite of passage.

Somehow Daniel managed to finish his beer, and somehow, sometime later, found himself halfway through another one.

After a while, his head began to buzz, his limbs became heavy, and his thoughts, for once, were muted, strangely distant. Slower even. Nothing mattered to him at the moment. Not his foster father, not the fact that Daniel didn't know how he'd make it through the next few years until he could go away to college and be responsible for himself. Nothing. The feeling was the closest thing to freedom he had experienced in nearly as long as he could remember. He wished he could somehow make the feeling last.

As he headed back toward the Davies house—he could never call that place home—Daniel wished he could somehow hold onto the odd but pleasant feeling of being disconnected from his pain and unhappy existence. But then, he thought of what could happen the next morning. That night, even. What if Davies noticed that he had sneaked out? What if he could smell the alcohol and cigarette smoke on him? Daniel's stomach clamped down. His head pounded, his gut churned and he stumbled, managing to fall to his knees in front of a patch of shrubs before everything came up. He knelt in the cool, damp grass waiting for his stomach to stop heaving, his arm wrapped around his shuddering middle, his head pounding, eyes watering.

When he began to feel a little better, he staggered to his feet, ducked over to side of the yard. Carefully climbing back up the tall oak leading to his bedroom window, Daniel stepped onto the roofline edge. He wobbled a few times, his worn sneakers skittering on the shingles. He steadied himself by catching onto the slope of the roof, leaning his weight against it. The realization that he had nearly fallen was strangely distant, as though it could have happened to someone else.

The world wavered for a moment, and Daniel slowly sat down on the edge of roof just outside his still open window. He could hear muffled shouting and crying from the bedroom down the hall from his own. The Davies were arguing again. Daniel thought about going back inside before he was discovered missing, but found he wasn't ready. He didn't want to have to once again listen to Mr. Davies' anger, to Dolores' pain, so he reached over, slid the window closed, effectively shutting them out.

Despite the coolness of the air, the sudden quiet and stillness of the night were too inviting to resist. Daniel shivered from the cold, his bare arms pricking in goosebumps, so he pulled up his legs, wrapped his arms around them for warmth. Gazing up at a clear sky, the moon was a bright sickle against the inky blackness, the stars a vast canopy above him. A beckoning of freedom, a promise that there was more to this world than the Davies' house, and the incessant loneliness and uncertainty that was Daniel's life.

As he watched the constellations, still feeling the effects of the alcohol in his system, Daniel's fears receded to a quiet place in his mind. If he didn't allow himself to think too much, he hoped those fears would stay there. Strange, but not unpleasant waves of dizziness poured over him, causing him to list. When he closed his eyes, he saw his mother sitting outside alone under an arid, starry sky, the glass clasped in her hand, her sole companion.

And finally, he understood.

In the morning, he'd woken with a slight headache and a dry, scratchy throat, but otherwise, he felt fine. He didn't even remember crawling back through his window and getting into bed, but somehow, he must have managed. Once in school, the kids he'd hung out with greeted him with friendly hello's rather than the usual teasing.

Almost two weeks later, one night when Daniel got into bed, he felt something hard underneath his pillow. He lifted the pillow to find his father's journal. Carefully opening the cover, he found it had been glued, the wrinkled pages smoothed out. Tucked inside was a note in Dolores' flowery script: _Don't let Mr. Davies see this._

Blinking back tears of gratitude, Daniel chided himself for being such a baby, but the gesture had caught him by surprise, made him realize that Dolores was just as much a prisoner of fate or bad circumstances as Daniel.

He made sure to keep the journal with him all the time, hidden in the bottom of the knapsack he took to school, to ensure that Mr. Davies never saw it, and to ensure that Dolores' gesture was never disclosed. Throughout the rest of his life he wondered how Dolores had explained the missing journal.

From that day on, though, he and Dolores became silent conspirators against Mr. Davies' iron control.

Weeks and months passed in the Davies home. Daniel's thirteenth birthday went by with the obligatory festivities, an outward show to friends and colleagues that Davies and his wife were good and caring parents.

With each passing month, with each passing ridicule, Daniel became more and more reliant on his friends in the park—something uncharacteristic for him. Daniel was used to relying only on himself, but the other kids offered him an unexpected but welcome distraction, an opportunity to tune out his own problems and listen to their self-important, alien teenaged angst, to which he pretended to understand and relate.

On the nights when the pressures of his foster home and his self-imposed academic load weighed on him, he'd sneak out and look for his friends. Most of the time, they were there, in the usual spot by the bleachers. Sometimes it was just Steve and his girlfriend. A few times, Daniel found only Steve there. Daniel tried to understand the unspoken connection he and Steve shared. Steve's quiet sympathy made Daniel wonder what went on in the other boy's expensive looking home but Daniel never asked. Just as Steve, after the first night, never asked any questions Daniel didn't want to answer either.

Sometimes, even Steve wasn't there, and the bleachers were silent and empty, appearing strangely forlorn under the illumination of the spotlights. On those nights, Daniel would wander the darkened neighborhood alone. He wondered what went on in those tidy, affluent rows of homes, just like he'd wondered about Steve's. Were the people who occupied them happy? Were the homes safe and inviting with normal families inside, or did they share dark secrets of their own? As he walked by each house, faint light shining through the curtains and seeping into the night, Daniel felt separated from any sense of normalcy by a barrier far thicker than those windowpanes.

On the nights when he couldn't risk sneaking out and Mr. Davies was especially harsh with him, sometimes the need to settle his quaking nerves and quiet his racing thoughts became too great. Daniel would pace in his room, trying to calm himself, but always the knowledge that there was an easier way spoke to him. There was a calm waiting for him, a sense of freedom, if only he had the courage to go after it.

Finally, one night the need became greater than the fear, and Daniel stole downstairs and carefully opened the cupboard that held the man's well-stocked, but largely untouched liquor cabinet.

The first few times Daniel was too nervous about being caught to do more than take one quick sip from the closest bottle he could reach. In time, however, as his anger and frustration grew, the quick gulps grew into long swallows to be replaced with water so he wouldn't be detected. The stolen respite was a small act of rebellion, a small way to establish control. To take back his peace and offer him an artificial courage.

Once he'd even swiped an unopened, dusty bottle of rye whiskey that had been pushed to the far back corner of the cabinet, at the time planning to share it with his friends. After a moment of reconsideration, Daniel decided to keep it for himself. He suspected the only common ground he shared with those kids was the desire for escape, the difference being the other kids desired escape from boredom and parental restrictions. Daniel's need went far deeper than he himself could articulate, or even fully understand, and so he stashed the bottle on the rooftop by his window, tucked against the rain gutters. Sometimes on nights when he couldn't sleep and self-doubt would plague him, he'd climb back out on the roof, watch the night sky and remind himself of his plan, steel his resolve to prove his foster father wrong. Sometimes, on the nights when he needed to dull both physical and emotional pain, he'd sip from that stolen bottle.

Sometimes just knowing it was there was enough.

As time continued to go by, his fourteenth birthday passed in much the same way as his thirteenth one, and Daniel spent his days in a carefully controlled regimen of studying, of avoiding Mr. Davies as much as possible, and, he hated to admit, Dolores too. Watching Dolores only filled Daniel with a growing sense of despair. The more diminished she became, the more Davies seemed to torment her. A part of Daniel even became angry with her, angry that she didn't do anything to protect herself. At first he tried to come to her defense, inadvertently directing added abuse toward himself, but those times were diminishing, as well. He could protect himself, or he could protect her. He couldn't do both, not that he really wanted to—not anymore.

If he hadn't been so focused on his studies, he figured he probably would have run away, tried to make his own way, but he was determined to fulfill his promise to himself. He only had two more years to go until he could apply for a scholarship. Two years. It may has well have been twenty for how unattainable it seemed.

Daniel was surprised to one night find his third stolen, hidden bottle empty, save for one swallow. The discovery both frightened him and sent a strange wave of panic through him. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to summon the courage to swipe yet another bottle—surely Mr. Davies must have noticed by now. Even more frightening, he wasn't sure if he had the courage not to. He never had time to find out which fear would win out.

On a cold, damp autumn night, Daniel lay stretched out on his bed, textbook in front of him and he tried to ignore the constant throb of his wrenched shoulder and sprained wrist. Tried not to look at the bruises forming in the imprint of Mr. Davies's thick fingers on the skin of his slender forearms. The tip of his tongue constantly flicked at the deep split in his swollen upper lip, tasting the blood that still seeped. The sharp, biting pain from the blow had faded, and now his mouth felt strangely numb, like the distant ache of Novocaine wearing off.

The house had become silent. Daniel hoped that Mr. Davies had vented enough of his anger for one night, but he knew from experience that silence didn't always mean safety. Sometimes it just meant that the man was only gearing up for more, a thought that made Daniel's stomach churn. He forced himself not to think about it. Forced himself to read another paragraph. Besides, it didn't help to think about it. Never did. Months earlier he had given up on the thought of telling anybody. Who'd listen? _Just forget it, and study_.

Finally, after reading the same sentence three times without comprehending a single word, he gave up. Pushing up from the bed with his good hand, Daniel went over to the closet, took out a warm sweater and pulled it on over his T-shirt. Striding to the window, he angrily tore it open, then cursed when it banged loudly against the pane. He waited a moment, and just as he swung one leg onto the roof, he heard the click of the doorknob turning.

Daniel froze. His gaze locked on the opening door then on a startled face. He took a quick breath in relief that it was Dolores behind the door, and not her husband. Daniel noticed that her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks ruddy from tears. When she realized what he was doing, an expression of sympathy, and something almost like betrayal passed her haggard features. Daniel knew he should come back inside, but something rooted him to the spot—half his body outside with freedom beckoning, the other half still inside, still caught in a life he feared he'd never escape.

For what seemed an eternity, he and Dolores stared into each other's eyes. Daniel was the first one to drop his gaze and he didn't make any move to step back inside. Without saying a word, Dolores turned away, stepped back into the hallway and closed the door. With a heavy heart, Daniel climbed the rest of the way onto the roof, quietly sliding the window shut behind him, making a decision he didn't realize at the time would change his life.

As he stepped onto the dampened lawn, he glanced back up at his window, half expecting to see Dolores' shadow framed in the light of one of the windows, but there was nothing. For a moment, Daniel considered going back inside to see if she was all right. For a moment, he was ashamed of his betrayal, but instead of going back inside, Daniel turned away from the house, started down the street in slow jog, and by the time he was past the first two houses, he was running at full speed. Running so fast, his feet hurt as they slapped against the wet pavement. He didn't stop until he reached the park. He didn't even care if his friends were there or not, but Brian and Steve were both there. They turned, startled at Daniel's rapid appearance as he skidded to stop beside them, panting from exertion.

Steve's eyes widened at the sight of Daniel's still bleeding and swollen mouth, and Daniel was grateful when the older boy didn't say anything. Steve's expression darkened, and not for the first time, Daniel could see something dangerous in his eyes. Anger, despair and rebellion.

Instead of hanging out by the bleachers, the boys headed for the street, Steve vibrating with a nervous energy that disconcertingly reminded Daniel of Mr. Davies when he was gearing up. The bitter smell of beer wafting off both boys was overlaid with a stronger odor – sweet yet sharp, pungent smoke.

Steve sauntered up to a car parked along the quiet, darkened street, Brian flanking him. Steve pulled a bent coat hanger from his pocket and began to jimmy it through the window casing. Daniel stood a few steps back, watching, wanting to protest, wanting to ask what Steve was doing, but he couldn't find his voice.

Steve yanked the door open with a triumphant whoop, and he and Brian high-fived each other. Steve leaned into the car, and Daniel could hear the older boy tossing objects around in the car. Steve handed some things, which Daniel couldn't see to Brian who stashed them in his pockets. Brian turned to hand a stack of cassette tapes to Daniel, but he took a hesitant step back.

Brian sneered at him. "What are you—chickenshit? I _knew_ you'd be a fucking baby about this."

Daniel started to reply with something equally scathing, but he directed his attention back to the car when he heard a loud crack. Steve had broken open the locked glove compartment using a screwdriver. "Uh, Steve, I think we should-"

Even as the words left his mouth, Daniel saw red and blue lights flash, then a short wail of a siren. The police car had been sitting at the cul-de-sac directly opposite them, apparently in wait. Two officers stepped from the car. The boys all considered fleeing, but a sharp order from one of the officers halted them in their tracks.

It was almost laughable the way Brian reacted when the three were placed inside the police cruiser. His sniffling and crying disclosed his true nature. Steve, on the other hand, smirked and treated the entire indignity as though it were a common everyday occurrence. He tossed his long hair, chatted to the officers with a forced cheerfulness, but a constant, nervous laugh was the only indicator of his fear.

Daniel merely sat back and watched the porch lights of his neighborhood sail by. There was a moment when he thought he should be scared to be in a police car, surely on his way to some kind of discipline, but overall, he only felt an odd sense of liberation.

When they reached the station and each boy was given an opportunity to call home, Daniel asked the officer to call Children's Services, ask for his caseworker. The officer looked Daniel over carefully, his focus stopping for a moment on Daniel's split lip. Should he have felt shame? Daniel wondered. Should he have covered the evidence of his abuse?

"George, can I see you a minute?" the second officer said, tapping his partner on the shoulder.

"Sure," George said, eyeing his arrestee. The two officers spoke briefly, nodding now and then, glancing at Daniel. Daniel didn't care what they were saying. He only cared that his bruises and joints were beginning to ache.

"Well, kid, looks like you're off the hook," the officer said, returning to his seat. "Your buddies said you had nothing to do with it. Still want us to call your caseworker?"

"Yeah," Daniel said.

"You're not going to be charged with anything, you understand that, right?" asked the officer.

"Yes, I do."

The officer squinted, sizing up the young man. Good looking kid, he thought, except for that busted-up lip. He noticed Daniel massaging his wrist and saw a mottling of purple bruising barely concealed by the boy's sleeve. "Can I get you anything?"

"Do you have any aspirin?" he asked the officer.

"Yeah, sure, kid," the man said, reaching for his desk drawer without taking his eyes off Daniel.

"You and your buddies get in a fight tonight?"

"No."

"How'd you hurt yourself?" he asked, dumping two tablets onto his desk blotter.

"I didn't," Daniel told him, picking up the medicine. "Could you call my caseworker, please?"

"I got someone on it already." The officer handed Daniel a glass of water, which he took.

"How'd you get beat up?"

Daniel put the glass down and closed his eyes, tired and wrung out from the entire evening. "I'm fine. I'm just tired."

"Uh-huh," the officer said. "Why don't you want to go home?"

"I don't have a home," Daniel told him, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"Records show you live with a Mr. and Mrs. Davies."

"Not anymore," he said. There was no way he was going back there. He couldn't go back there.

"Uh-huh." The officer sat back in his chair and piled his meaty arms across his chest. "There's a cot in the other room. You wanna sack out for a while?" Daniel nodded, and the officer propelled himself up and out of his chair. "Then, let's go."

Long after Steve and Brian's parents had retrieved them, Daniel still waited for his social worker to arrive. He fell asleep just about the same time the aspirin kicked in, and when he woke up, his social worker was looking down at him. Sitting up quickly, he swiped a hand over his eyes, tried to clear his sleep-fogged head.

"Daniel?" she said. Her hair was disheveled, clothes wrinkled, looking as though she'd just gotten out of bed. She fussed over the cut to his lip and the swollen bruise.

"I'm not going back there," he whispered.

"You don't have to," she said, and then explained that she had called Mr. Davies before coming to the station. They had come to the agreement that it was time for Daniel to move to another foster home.

Daniel stifled a sardonic laugh. He could just imagine what the man had _really_ said. He also could well imagine his social worker's dilemma of what to do with him now. Daniel had become even more of a difficult placement – teenaged, too precocious for his own good, and a run-in with the law to boot.

Daniel's case worker signed all the necessary papers, and he was released to her. Together they left the police station, and in the car she told him that he'd have to spend a few days, maybe a few weeks in a children's shelter while he was reassigned. Daniel, his head resting on the cool door window, nodded.

Despite the circumstances, Daniel thought he should have been happy to be evicted from the Davies's lives, to finally escape from a life he'd hated so much, but he found it hard to conjure up any emotion whatsoever. And it was a different kind of disconnected from the one he found in the stolen drinks. Oddly enough, he found himself no longer caring what happened to him. Where they placed him. None of it mattered. He was just tired. Too tired to think, to care what they did with him, and he didn't mind staying at a shelter for a while. He could just tune out and let the world pass him by.

It was nearly dawn by the time he was checked into the shelter. Nearly sun-up by the time he was assigned a bed. When the sky began to lighten behind the bent, dusty metal blinds, Daniel finally fell asleep, too exhausted to dream.

* * *

tbc 


	7. Scattered Reflections pt 3

Scattered Reflections part 3

* * *

Nearly a week of disjointed time had passed when Daniel's case worker triumphantly informed him that she'd found him a new home. Before the unwelcome news could fully sink in, she drove him to a neighborhood far less affluent than that of the Davies's. Many of those houses' yards were unkempt, leaves strewn about, fences in need of painting.

They pulled up in front of a small house with faded blue paint on the siding, a few straggly looking flowers still managing to survive the autumn cold. Daniel followed his case worker up the cracked concrete steps, waited as she knocked on the door. It opened after a few moments of fumbling and shuffling noises.

Daniel squinted, trying to see past the gloom beyond the open doorway, trying to make out the silhouetted form of a tall woman. She greeted them, stepped back to allow them to come inside.

The woman introduced herself. Her name was Liza, or Lillian, or some name starting with an 'L.' Daniel didn't really take note, or pay attention to the conversation between his new foster parent and case worker. It didn't matter anyway. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, watching the woman's gray tabby cat winding around her legs, purring loudly, its eyes closed in apparent ecstasy. After his case worker had left and the woman showed him to his room, Daniel quietly thanked her and stepped inside. He sat down on the edge of the bed, turning his back slightly from her. She took the hint and left him alone.

Sliding from the bed and onto the floor, Daniel glanced around at his new surroundings. The heavily shadowed room was spare, the hardwood floor dull and scratched, the area rug upon which he sat was equally faded, nearly threadbare, but soft to the touch. A twin sized bed, narrow dresser and bookshelf took up the entire small space. Nothing adorned the plain white walls. Daniel noticed the paint was peeling in the corners and around the windowsills. The bookshelf was crammed with dusty books, books lined up, books piled on top. He skimmed the spines, but as soon as he saw the top row—_The Hardy Boys Mysteries_—he knew he needn't look any farther. Books in foster homes were always the same—books left by other kids, books well-meaning adults thought children liked to read, books that nobody read but looked good when a caseworker showed up.

A square cardboard box with Daniel's name written on it sat in front of the narrow closet. He supposed it contained his belongings from the Davies's home. Staring at the box, Daniel's eyes suddenly filled with tears. He realized his entire life could be packed up in a box scarcely large enough for a television set. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the tears away, forced back his self-pity.

_It doesn't matter what happens now, remember?_ he reminded himself, his fingers unconsciously plucking at the loose threads on the rug. _It's just another place_. _No big deal. You'll get used to it, just like all the other places. You can take care of yourself._

Later on, the woman called him for dinner, but Daniel claimed that he wasn't hungry, even though his stomach was growling. He was surprised when she didn't make an issue of it and left him alone.

The next morning, he woke to find the box unpacked, the open closet doors revealing his meager wardrobe. His books were neatly arranged on the top shelf of the bookcase, transplanting the Hardy Boys to the floor. He wondered how he'd managed to sleep through all that.

Daniel licked his dry lips and took in more of the room, what there was to see. He looked out his window, which overlooked a small but shady backyard. He saw what he suspected was his new foster parent's car, a beat up old Saab. _Great_, he thought. _She's doing this for the money. _

He turned away from the window, and that's when he saw it—his father's journal laid out on the nightstand beside his bed. Seeing it out in the open seized the air in his lungs. He tore it off the nightstand and shoved it back into his bag.

"I hope you don't mind that I put your things away," the woman said from the doorway. Daniel spun around, startled by the voice.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"No—I'm fine," he managed to croak out. Daniel glanced around the room, a little uncomfortable with having a stranger seeing him in his pajamas, even if it was her house. He pulled and stretched his T-shirt, ran a hand through his morning hair. She sensed his discomfort and turned away.

"Anyhow, I have some breakfast food—cereal, eggs, toast—whatever you'd like. Come on down when you're ready," she said, and padded away before Daniel had a chance to answer, or thank her.

When he heard her steps reach a distant room, Daniel made sure the journal was well hidden, and poked his head into the hall, looking for the bathroom. He tiptoed to the bathroom, pulled the door closed as quietly as possible behind him, and looked at his face in the mirror. As impassively as though he were gazing at someone else's reflection, he studied the thick scab on his upper lip and the still evident, greenish-tinged bruise that had spread out over the bridge of his nose and mouth. Moving his hand to the chipped brass frame of the mirror, he ran his fingers over the cracks.

How many different homes had he been in over the past six years? How many times had he looked at himself in someone else's bathroom? How many times had he said to himself, "This is the place, things will be better now"? How many times had he believed it?

Not this time.

He finished using the bathroom, wiping down the sink and countertops like he'd learned at the Davies—"This isn't a barn, Dan"—and headed back to the room where he'd slept.

At the Davies he had been schooled in the proper usage of curtains—closed at 7pm, opened promptly at 6 am. Never too early or too late on either end. Standing in this new room, a room with soft curtains, casually allowing the sunlight and the moonlight to enter, Daniel wondered what new rules he'd have to learn.

It bugged him just a little that the woman had put his clothes away. They were his clothes, not hers, and he didn't like having to search for them. He didn't like that she'd gone out of her way to make him feel comfortable. He wasn't comfortable. He didn't want to be comfortable. He knew this was just a temporary placement. They all were. The agency did the best they could, but half the time they didn't know what to do with him. Truth be known, he didn't know what to do either.

When he did make it down to the kitchen, he stood in the doorway, his hands jammed in his pockets, waiting to be invited in. The woman scurried around the bright room, pouring milk in her coffee, and some for the cat. She pulled a dish from a chaotic cupboard tossed a piece of hot toast on it, all the while swaying to music playing from a radio in an adjacent room. Daniel's eyelids fluttered, unnerved by the disorder, the lack of discipline, the higgledy-piggledy way she prepared a meal. There was something about it that made him nervous, that made him want to quiet the room, contain the disorganization. This was the kind of thing that could only lead to trouble.

"Oh, good morning," she said, spinning around toward him, not smiling, but her expression was open, inviting even. "What would you like?"

"Whatever you're having," he said, slinking into the room. In the bright light of the morning sun shining through the windows, Daniel noticed that she was older than any of his previous foster parents had been. Her dark hair was shot through with gray, lines bracketed her mouth and crinkled the skin around her eyes. The tabby cat from the night before lay on top of the table, cleaning its fur. Daniel thought that couldn't be very sanitary. But it wasn't his house, so who was he to say what was what?

"Well, I'm having coffee and toast, but I would think a young man like you would need something more substantial," she said, swinging open the doors to the pantry. "I have some dry cereal…or I could make you some oatmeal. How about some scrambled eggs?"

"Cereal is fine," Daniel said, placing himself in a chair.

"Cereal it is, then," she said, handing Daniel a box. "The refrigerator is over there. Silverware is in that drawer. Bowls are up there. Make yourself at home."

_Yeah, right_, he thought, gathering up the milk and dishes. _They always say that, until you do one thing that they don't like, and then all of a sudden it's __**their**__ home, not yours… _

She brought her toast and coffee to the table and sat down across from Daniel's seat. She sipped her coffee and stroked her cat, watching the young man step lightly around her kitchen. She understood this behavior, this caution and concern on the part of the child in a new home. Daniel was the latest in a long line of foster children she had taken into her home, but he would probably be her last. She was getting too old, and the kids were getting too unruly. She had thought about giving it up all together, but then Sheila, her friend in Children's Services, called her up, begging her to take this one kid—"He's a special one. Bright, quiet. He could sure use a little guidance." Guidance, she had come to know, was code for "He's been in some trouble." Still…

"So, what shall I call you?" she asked, watching him take his seat.

Daniel frowned. Nobody ever asked him what he wanted to be called. They just called him what they wanted to call him. "It doesn't matter."

"Sure it does," she said, dunking her toast in the coffee. "Do you prefer Dan-"

"No."

Her hand stopped midway to her mouth, the toast dripping coffee onto the tabletop. Here was something, she thought. "Okay, how about Daniel?"

He rounded his shoulders, embarrassed that he'd spoken so quickly. "Yeah, that's fine."

"Good. And you can call me Lila, Daniel."

"Yeah, okay," he said. So her name was Lila, then. He realized that he hadn't cared what her name was up until that point. Maybe he still didn't. At any rate, it didn't matter. He wouldn't be here long enough for it to make any difference.

Daniel waited a moment for Lila to ask him another question, and when she didn't, he poured himself some cereal. Occasionally, his eyes would dart toward her, uncomfortable with being watched while he ate. She got the message, and kept her eyes averted.

"Well, I guess now would be as good a time as any to talk about the rules of the house," Lila said, breaking off a piece of toast. "While you're here, treat this house like your home. You're not a guest; you're a member of the household. Households don't run on their own. We all have to pitch in, but don't worry—I won't expect you to do much. I mean, well, look around," she said, offering the evidence of her non-traditional house, "I'm not a stickler for cleanliness. I certainly don't expect you to be, either. Your room is your room. I only ask that you don't leave any food lying around in there. Zuzu here is getting fat enough." Lila scooped the cat off the table and plunked her down in her lap. "Aren't you, Zuzu?"

Daniel listened, waiting for the list of demands and restrictions.

"And as far as anything else, my philosophy is that your main job is to be a student," she said, scratching the cat behind its ears. "Do the best you can, and ask me for help whenever you need it. Oh, except for math. I'm not going to be much help past geometry I."

Daniel nodded. It didn't matter. Foster parents always said they'd be willing to help anyway they could, but they rarely did. Daniel figured out long before coming to Lila's that he didn't need anybody to help him with his homework.

"Anything else? Anything you'd like to know?" she asked.

Daniel straightened his posture and brought the spoon to his mouth slowly. "No. I don't think so."

Lila watched him, his manners impeccable, his back soldier-straight. He was fully dressed, right down to his running shoes, his light brown hair neatly combed and slicked down into submission. She thought he looked terribly uncomfortable. It was a stark contrast to Lila's own slouched posture and sloppy tracksuit she usually wore around the house. She rested her slippered feet on the seat of the chair next to her and pet her cat, wondering where this young man had come by such severe behavior.

There would plenty of time to talk, she thought. She picked up her coffee and took slow sips, enjoying the music that played behind her.

Though Lila, her cat and her cheerful home should have been the salve to help heal Daniel's wounded spirits, he had learned the hard way that appearances were deceiving, and it was best not to trust anyone too soon.

Still, he did allow himself some ray of hope, a fragile optimism that maybe things would get better.

And in time they did. He had trouble sleeping the first few nights as he always did in a new place. When he was able to finally fall asleep, he was plagued by old nightmares that revisited him as they always did, too.

And so he resigned himself to sleeplessness, knowing from experience it was pointless to even try. Though his body was tired, his mind wouldn't allow him to rest, and no amount of reading or distracting himself would change it. Those first few nights, he perched on the old trunk in front of the window gazing through the open curtains at the darkened, silent street.

He didn't think about the Davies, at least not when he could help it. Just too much pain to sort through. One thing he did miss, though, was being able to sit out on their roof, watching the night sky. However, he didn't miss the circumstances that compelled him to the solitude of the stars.

He wondered how Dolores was. If she missed him. He missed her a little. Wondered if some of the tension Mr. Davies had unleashed on Daniel would increase two-fold on Dolores. A few times, Daniel had tried to summon the courage to phone her, but something made him stop every time he picked up the phone. Maybe, he thought, it was best to make a clean start. Maybe that time in the Davies' house was something best forgotten anyhow.

He spent the first few weeks in Lila's house peeking into rooms, not daring to go in. Something told him he needed to be given permission to enter certain parts of the house. One room, in particular, behind two French doors, intrigued him. The doors were usually shut, which told him he wasn't welcome. He'd seen Lila sitting in the room a few times, late at night, usually. He tried to act casual, finding reasons to walk past the doors. It was an office of some sort, lined with books, dark and rich with colors.

"You can go on in," Lila said, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Daniel turned to her, at once startled by her presence and her willingness to let him see her personal room. "Go ahead," she said, bobbing her head toward the door.

Daniel grabbed the amber cut-glass doorknob, turned it slowly, and let the heavy oak door swing open. The air was musty and old, and Daniel loved it. His feet carried him to the first case of books, most of them leather bound with gilt stenciling.

"My parents were teachers, like yours," Lila said, taking in the sight of wonder held in his eyes. "They were going to sell the house when they moved to Phoenix, but I decided to buy it from them."

Daniel nodded, a perfunctory show that he was listening, which he wasn't, and while he did so he scanned the books on the shelf. Titles he'd almost forgotten stood before him—_Agamemnon, Odysseus, The Acts of King Arthur and his Noble Knights._ Authors like family members he hadn't seen in years appeared to him—Malory, Heller, Henry Miller, and Plath. Ayn Rand rested against J.R.R Tolkein, who sidled up next to Bloom and Woolf. These were his parents' favorites, and seeing them again awakened something inside him.

"Do you like to read?" Lila asked.

Daniel pulled an edition of Leviathan from the shelf, cracked it open and began sifting through the words. He remembered his father pouring over these words, in that kind of memory softened over time, yet remained redolent with the thought that somehow this was an important book. The archaic language, flowery and so vastly different than the books he trudged through at school, at first tripped him up. Soon enough Daniel had worked through the syntax and was reading for content. This was food for his soul. He pried open the spot where it had rested on the shelf and took its neighbor down, _Four Texts on Socrates_. He opened the book and was awash in a memory of his father tracing his son's small finger over the words, reading them to the boy, all foreign and musical.

"That's Greek," Lila said, witnessing Daniel's cheeks and nose pinking up.

"Yes, I know," Daniel said, not taking his eyes off the text, even though the words seemed to waver and float.

"I have the English edition…"

"That's okay," he said, turning the page. Here was the word Athens, and here was Republic—he remembered. His father's hand was warm and dry, the skin on his fingers rough against Daniel's. His voice was low and quiet, close to Daniel's ear. _"Andreia. Say it with me, Daniel. Andreia. It means courage."_

"Andreia," Daniel said, touching the word.

Lila looked first at the page, then at Daniel, breathless that such an inconceivable thing had just occurred. "You can read Greek?"

_"Here. See these words? Kalos kai agathos. Can you say that? Read it with me. Kalos kai agathos."_

"Kalos kai agathos."

Lila threw the dishtowel onto the desk and made a feeble attempt to find the word within the text. "Kalos what?"

_"Kalos kai agathos, Daniel. Remember that."_

"Kalos kai agathos."

_"Do you remember what it means, Daniel?" his father asked._

"It means noble and good," Daniel whispered. He closed the book. He couldn't read the words anymore. His eyes were too filled with tears.

"Who taught you how to read Greek?" Lila asked. Her heart wrenching, she raised a hand to Daniel's back, resting it almost tentatively, half-ways expecting him to pull away, but he didn't.

Daniel took a deep, shuddering breath, and whispered, "My father." He looked up and drew yet another book from the shelf.

Lila bit her lower lip and nodded. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what she had been told about his parents. "Um, your parents died when you were eight, right?"

"Yes," he said, holding but unable to open _Le Petit Prince_.

"You learned to read Greek when you were eight?" she asked, hoping her voice registered surprise, not shock.

"No," he said, and she was strangely relieved. "I was six."

"Six?" she asked. A few hundred questions popped into her head, but they were interrupted by the sounds of Daniel sniffling and clearing his throat. What she knew about this young man was sketchy, at best. She knew his parents had died in a freak construction accident, that they were teachers. She knew his last placement had turned ugly. She knew he was a good student—bright enough to have skipped a couple of grades, but his records read like a tour of central New York's school districts.

And here he was, this lost boy, reading to her in a lost language, and it occurred to her that she might be the only person on Earth who knew he had the ability to do so. She immediately grieved the time lost to him, the years he could have been studying in a proper school, not just the basics, but the masters. She had known Daniel all of ten days, and already it was quite clear this was no ordinary young man. She never knew, however, just how extraordinary he was. Not until she felt his pain at excavating those stolen memories.

"And French?" she asked, pointing to the copy of _The Little Prince_ in his hand.

"My mother spoke French," he said in a voice so quiet she could barely hear him. He passed her the book.

"Does that mean you can speak French?"

Daniel bit his lower lip, worried his brow, and shrugged. "I don't know."

Lila nodded and let him pass by her, his eyes searching the books, his hands reaching, sometimes just to touch their spines. She opened the book up, its drawings just as fresh and sentimental in her mind as they were when she had first read it. She hoped the French she took in high school would at least allow her to muddle through part of the book, hoped it wouldn't be inappropriate to delve that deeply into the young man's intellect.

"Les grandes personnes ne comprennent jamais rien toutes eules," she read, wincing at what she knew were some strange pronunciations. "Et c'est fatigant, pour les enfants, de toujours leur donner, des explications. Oh, sorry. Explica-see-yon."

Daniel looked at her, his eyelids fluttering, their rims red and puffy. "I don't…I don't remember, I guess."

Lila could hardly breathe. She couldn't take her eyes off his sad expression, off those eyes that held such secrets. She forced air into her body, and said, "Okay."

Daniel looked away, feeling that he should, feeling that he was about to cross that line with Lila. About to allow her in. He'd said enough for one day. More than he ever wanted to. He grasped hold of the cuffs on his shirt, twisted his hands, and said, "Thank you for letting me…um…"

"Any time," she told him. "You are welcome to come in here any time you want."

Daniel glanced up at her one last time, nodded, and was gone.

Lila sat the book on the credenza and pressed her trembling hand to her lips.

Late that night, Daniel, lying awake in his bed, heard a scratch at his closed door, pulling him from his tired thoughts. Climbing from the bed, he went to the door, opened it to find Zuzu, purring against his doorjamb. Daniel stepped back and she trotted into his room without prompting, and he decided it was time for some stargazing. He climbed on top of the old trunk, which he had lined with a tattered blanket, and made himself comfortable, resting his elbow on the window ledge. Soon thereafter, Zuzu jumped into his lap, plunked herself down, and tucked her nose under her tail.

He must have fallen asleep finally because he felt someone touching his shoulder, urging him awake by whispering his name. He blinked, winced at the stiffness of his neck, saw Lila looking at him, concerned. She gently urged him to stand and led him half-asleep to his bed, pulling the covers up snugly around him. Lila rubbed his arm, whispered good night. He felt the bed jostle as Zuzu settled in beside him, ignoring Lila's half-hearted scolding. Daniel felt Lila's hand very lightly touch his hair, pulling a few errant strands from his face.

"Lila?" he whispered.

"Yes, Daniel."

It was probably a mistake, he knew, but something told him he could trust this woman. Something told him she might even appreciate what he was about to say. So he took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eye, and said, "The big people did not understand anything by themselves."

"I'm sorry?" she whispered.

"Les grandes personnes ne comprennent jamais rien toutes eules," he said, embarrassed by his own knowledge. "That's what it means. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" she asked, feeling her heart break for him. "For what?"

"I knew what it meant."

"That's okay. No apology necessary," she said. Her eyes began to burn with slow tears. "There was more, though, wasn't there?"

"Yes," he said, crushing the top of his sheet in his hand. "And it's tiring, for children, to always give them explanations."

Lila smiled, a tear thread across her cheek. "Yes, I'm sure it is."

The faintest of smiles broke over his lips, and he urged himself to go one more step. "My parents taught me Arabic, too."

This new information caused Lila to pause. She merely blinked, shook her head, and whispered, "Well, I can't help you there, bud. I don't think I know one word in Arabic."

"Maybe I could…teach you," he said.

Lila bobbed her head up and down and smiled down at him. "Yeah, I'd like that." She stroked his soft hair away from his forehead and marveled at his knowledge, but more than that, at his capacity to trust. "I'd like that very much. But for now, it's very late, so why don't you get some sleep."

Daniel nodded and felt her hand brush against his cheek. He whispered good night. He vaguely heard Lila leave the room, and he turned on his side, snuggling against the furry warmth beside him. Before sleep fully took him, he began to allow that hope to grow, to believe that maybe he'd found a place he could be safe for a while.

Over the next few months, Daniel forged an unlikely friendship with Lila, who treated him as though he were a favorite nephew, and the arrangement suited Daniel just fine. Lila told him that she had been married once, a lifetime ago, a mistake she would not be repeating. She'd never had a desire for children of her own, telling him that the world was full of kids who needed homes, and she'd been happy to provide one.

Lila was fascinated by Daniel's interest in ancient Egypt and would bring home books she thought he would like, and Daniel would in turn regale her with everything he'd learned from them. They'd sit for hours in the study, the dust in the air shimmering like tiny jewels. Daniel did teach Lila some Arabic, both of them giggling when Lila sometimes mispronounced or forgot the words. She didn't really have a good ear for languages, but her enthusiasm more than made up for it, and Daniel discovered that he had another talent—a gift for teaching, for helping. Something he suspected would never have come to light had he not met Lila. His hopes for a safe harbor were finally granted, and the newfound stability helped ease the constant tightness that had settled in his chest and shoulders until finally, one day, he realized it was gone.

Lila had placed a few calls to private schools in the area, friends of her parents. She told them about her latest foster child, and inquired about scholarships. Her inquiries were usually met with skepticism, but upon meeting the young man, skepticism turned quickly to wonder, and Daniel was offered not two, but three scholarships. Within a week, he was enrolled, placed in classes three years beyond public schools, and seemed to thrive under the new arrangement.

Daniel's need to stifle and drown his fears also eased, yet the temptation sometimes remained. Luckily, his obsession with studying proved to be a satisfying substitute, and he buckled down even harder, never forgetting the promise he'd made to himself—that he was going to make it in this world. Maybe one day he could even do something important enough to change the world for the better.

On his sixteenth birthday, Daniel asked if he could take the GED, which would enable him to leave school early and enter college. So it was that one weekend he took the GED, and the next took the SAT. A month later, he was a high school graduate with a combined score impressive enough for him to choose any university in the country. A prideful part of him gloated over the fact that he'd proven Mr. Davies wrong. The fact that he had grown over six inches that year was another victory. He was no longer a helpless little orphan with nothing to his name. With the scholarships, he finally had something he'd earned all on his own, and no one was going to take it away from him.

The day he left for college, Lila hugged him, kissed him, and told him that if he ever needed anything, she should be his first call. Daniel agreed, and found, for the first time in his memory, that he was going to miss his foster mother. When her arms relaxed her hold on him, Daniel increased his hold on her.

"Thank you," he managed to say.

Lila had no words, only clung to him.

As he settled into his new college life, Daniel again felt the outsider, still much younger than his peers, his inquisitive mind just as alien. For the most part, he didn't mind. He was used to it. Socializing had never been high on his list of priorities, anyhow. Fraternities held no interest for him, nor did the games or rallies. They were a waste of time, too much alpha-male posturing for his liking anyway.

Some of the guys in his dorm thought it was funny to give the teenager a beer or a shot of tequila. They laughed and watched Daniel down the drinks, at the same time, gulping down the contents of their own numerous bottles and glasses. Eventually they would pass out, and when they did, Daniel would empty their bottles of liquor into his glass. He'd toast to them all, the lot of them. Each lightweight, who never realized "the teenager" could drink them all under the table.

He'd kept in touch with Lila for a while, but as his life became busier, the contact was less and less frequent. Plus, much to her surprise, Lila had met a man, and Daniel could tell it was time for her to take the next step in her life. He was happy for her. She deserved someone nice, someone who could take care of her for a change.

Daniel found a small group of fellow archaeology and linguistic students who welcomed him in their academic circle. His intelligence and talent for languages was beneficial to their study sessions, and his gentle, curious nature gradually endeared him enough for them to include him in their social circle, as well.

Many of those study sessions ended with all of them hitting the campus bars and parties, and for Daniel, with freedom came unexpected but exhilarating irresponsibility. In time his friends forgot how young he really was (the fact that he'd put on thirty pounds and topped six-feet tall didn't hurt), and so when he could easily hold his own with each one of their drinks, nobody gave him a second look. The chance to break free from restrictions, the fact that he was on his own was undeniably liberating. The massive amounts of alcohol he and his friends consumed once again offered Daniel the chance to break free from his shyness and doubts.

His first few terrifying, but life-affirming sexual experiences were clouded in hazes of alcohol, smoke and blaring music. The encounters with girls older and much more experienced than him, girls whose names he was later embarrassed to admit he didn't even recall.

He'd been able to prevent his newfound social life from interfering with his studies for a time, but after too many parties in a row, too many missed classes, and one forgotten mid-term exam, Daniel's actions began to catch up with him. When he'd received a notice from his academic advisor for a meeting, Daniel's heart began to pound, and the fear that he may have blown all he'd worked for almost made him physically ill. In fact, he'd had to duck into the men's room on his way to the advisor's office, taking deep breaths, fighting back the urge to vomit. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was still his raging hangover. At any rate, he was terrified.

He'd reported to his meeting, listened to a lecture on how close he was to losing him scholarship. As the advisor spoke, Daniel's hands began to shake and he clenched them into fists to hide the fact. He was made to sit through "We took a chance on you, Mr. Jackson. There are a certain number of professors in this department chomping at the bit to see you fail. Don't let your own lack of judgment be your downfall and their celebration."

Daniel's chest tightened in that familiar ache. He kept his features contrite, repentant, promising to buckle down, to study harder. He told his advisor that he just wasn't used to being on his own yet, and was still adapting, hoping to play his youth and inexperience to his advantage, playing on the man's sympathies.

He was let off with a stern warning, which was more than enough for Daniel. The fact that he'd almost thrown everything away in his first year filled him with a sense of failure, of sheer disgust with his lack of control. He remembered the determined, proud 12-year-old boy he had once been. The boy who had made that vow to prove everyone wrong, and Daniel knew he couldn't let that resolute part of himself down.

His focus once more became single-minded. Nothing mattered but getting those degrees.

And he did.

In turn, he was rewarded with discovering another insatiable thirst within him. A thirst for knowledge. A hunger to solve mysteries deemed unsolvable by others lacking the right amount of imagination and determination. And Daniel would be the one to unlock them.

Professor Jordan had taken Daniel under his wing at that point, and Daniel's enthusiasm and boundless energy offered the older man a new joy for his profession. In turn, Daniel learned everything he could from the professor, recording every story, every theory in his journal. Over the years, the two developed an easy friendship based solely on their common insatiable curiosity.

As time went by, Daniel refused to be swayed by the many nay-sayers who scoffed at or even ridiculed his work and his theories. Even when he'd met Sarah, who loved him unabashedly, with all her heart, the thirst remained all-consuming. Nothing else mattered but translating that stubborn, elusive piece of text, dating that crumbling shard of pottery, or proving the relevance to his theory on the true origin of the pyramids.

When Sarah finally gave up on him, a part of him missed her, regretted turning his back on someone he cared about, but his goal was larger than life, larger than anything human contact could offer. In truth, the very concept of a permanent relationship was alien to him. Even Professor Jordan was disappointed in him, heartbroken, as Stephen had later bluntly informed Daniel. The older man had tried to counsel Daniel, suspecting he was straying off-track, but Daniel, lost in his obsession, found the concern cloying, distracting even, so he began to distance himself, not allowing anyone to divert him from his goal.

In time, as Daniel deep down suspected it would, the life he'd worked so hard to build began to totter, crumble around his feet. Its foundations as fragile as some of the ancient pottery he held in his hands.

The grants were no longer coming in. Many of his more controversial dissertations were no longer being accepted for publication. Daniel once again sought his old solace—a shot of vodka in his morning coffee to steady his shaking hands and wavering confidence. A small glass in the evenings so he could tune out the incessant rambling thoughts filling his mind, a swallow from a bottle of whiskey, just enough to be able to sleep at least a few hours a night. He was careful to restrict his intake to just those few times in a day, and thankfully his willpower remained strong.

He ignored the rumors that found their way to him, as they have a way of doing. Rumors that he was losing it. Genius is one step away from madness, don't you know? Some of those jibes came from the very people Daniel had first befriended in his early scholastic days.

Who knows? Maybe he _was_ losing it. Daniel knew he wasn't a very good judge of what was deemed normal behavior, but strangely enough, none of it really mattered to him. His obsession mattered more. He knew with an unwavering certainty that his theories were right, he just had to find a way to prove them.

For the first time, Daniel found he could empathize with his grandfather. Was this what it had been like for Nick before he'd checked himself into the hospital? That thought alone gave him reason to need an extra shot that night. And then one more.

It all came to head at the end of Daniel's fateful lecture, and his dismissal from tenure. Luckily, he hadn't had much time to dwell on the fact or he probably would have been in danger of ending up on the streets—as much of a vagabond as Mr. Davies had always treated him.

On a cold, rainy day, as dismal and gray as Daniel's spirit, his savior arrived in the form of Catherine, offering him a new mystery to unravel. The Stargate was the ultimate challenge, an immense combination lock to which only Daniel had the key.

The offer, at the time, had at first seemed bizarre, shady even, but when Catherine asked him, 'do you want to prove your theories are right?' the one thing Daniel wanted more than anything, would have done just about anything for, well, that had pretty much clinched it. He suspected he would have taken the offer based on those words alone, even if he hadn't had anyplace else to go.

And, on that secret military base, Daniel had in fact, proven his theories. Unfortunately, he had solved the mystery too quickly to fully quench his yearnings. He didn't want it to be over yet.

When he managed to bullshit his way onto Jack's exploration team, it was not only in the desire to feed his hunger for the new, the unexplained, it was also because he had nothing to go back to. He couldn't leave that base with nowhere to go, with no goal in mind. The fear of going back to nothing—his life in ruins—was far greater, far more terrifying than anything that could have laid at the end of that wormhole.

At the time, Daniel hadn't even considered that he had no idea how to get everyone back. In truth, he'd almost hoped that there _was _no way back.

What he had no way of knowing was that his life would truly begin on Abydos. All the years of searching on Earth, of wondering what his life might have been, of matriculation and theorizing—here, in the arms of a woman who had never heard of his own planet, here he found a home.

His own home. To his surprise he came to realize that home wasn't a place, and it wasn't a structure. It was a feeling of belonging, of being accepted. It was a feeling of freedom.

It was also the happiest, most joyful place he had ever known, and when joyful, most of the men usually became drunk on Abydonian wine. Strong stuff, with a kick, Daniel spent many jubilant nights with his new friends and family, and just as many quiet days nursing his thumping head.

One night, when the wine had been poured, Daniel decided the men in his village needed to be taught a traditional Tau'ri song, one suitably appropriate for such a night. He gathered them around, his robes slopping over his shoulders, his glasses askew on his face. Abydonian wine, he discovered, affected his speech in a most peculiar way, as well as affected his ability to keep his glasses on straight. He didn't really understand why, but that was a mystery for another time.

"So," he began, clapping his hands together and finding them strangely numb, "there's this song. It's sung to the tune of 'Do Your Ears Hang Low?', which, of course, means absolutely nothing to you." Daniel looked around at the blank faces in front of him, watched one of the men fall over completely. The men waited in rapt, albeit drunken attention. Daniel closed his eyes, hummed a few notes to find an acceptable pitch, and began. "Doooo yoooooour balls hang low? Do they dangle to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over yer shoulder, like a Continental soldier? Do your ballllllls haaaaaang loooooooooooow?"

The men stared at him, some smiling politely, others pulling their hands across their numb lips. Daniel looked around in confusion. No one was laughing. He pushed his glasses up, and said, "You do have testicles, right?"

"Danyel," Kasuf cried out from across the tent, "you are doing it again! The wine has stolen your tongue!"

Daniel stared at the slightly oscillating figure of his father-in-law, and then understood what the man was trying to say. He hadn't realized that he'd reverted to English. "Oh, I didn't translate it! Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh," he said, digging his fist into his hip, his hand to his forehead. "Oh. Oh. Oh, okay. So…yes, I can do that. Okay. Yes." Daniel strode around the room, making the corrections in his presentations. "Yes, okay. So, I'm fairly sure the translation is correct. I'll sing it first in Abydonian, then in my language. Or maybe…No, first in Abydonian, then…Yes, okay, I'll sing it to you a couple times, and you try to follow along, go it?"

And so he began again, hoping his translation of an English euphemism would work. When he reached the end, the men howled, slapped their thighs, and lifted their cups to Daniel. Daniel laughed with them, downed a few cups more of the biting liquid, and began again, complete with hand gestures.

An hour later, every man in his village could sing both the Abydonian and the English version.

Years later, when a young Abydonian boy walked up to Jack and asked, "How they hangin'?" in perfect English, Daniel pretended he had swallowed a bug and walked away hacking up a lung.

But after time, the Abydonians settled back into their routines. However, Daniel, having no routine, found one in drinking. With each meal, he downed a cup full of the wine, and each time his thirst needed to be quenched, his glass was filled again. Sha're laughed it off, at first. Then she began to ask the other women in the village if their husbands drank so much. Finally, she conspired with Ska'ara to remove the wine from their tent all together, and whenever they were at a meal to keep the wine far from her husband.

The plan worked for a day or two. But as his body rid itself of the alcohol, his temper increased. He and Sha're had their first argument and Sha're stormed out of their tent in a blur of flying black hair and whirling robes. Instead of going after her, Daniel tore apart their tent looking for the jugs but there were none to be found.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm down, Daniel invited himself into his neighbors' tent—an elderly couple who sometimes struggled with their daily chores. Daniel offered to help the older man with the mastaage pen and when they worked up a sweat and a thirst in the stifling heat, he knew that eventually the wine would begin to flow. When the man's wife poured them their drinks as Daniel knew she would, he made sure to slow his sips, to allow the alcohol to take effect before accepting another proffered glass.

It was too easy to build up a tolerance to the potent, alien wine, and Daniel realized he had to be more careful.

Sha're continued to hide the wine jugs and kept a close eye on him when he left the tent, so under the ruse of the village requiring something more medicinal than wine for treating and sterilizing wounds, Daniel remembered an old recipe he had read for concocting moonshine. He appointed Ska'ara as his helper and together, in the map room, a place Sha're rarely visited, Daniel brewed up a large barrel's worth.

The plan worked well—the moonshine was potent enough to be used for medicinal purposes, and it offered Daniel a respite when he felt the familiar need coursing through his veins. One day though, the plan backfired. He had become enthralled with the glyphs adorning the walls of the map room, suddenly realizing their significance. In his wonder and excitement, he must have refilled his cup too many times because he'd lost all track of time. When he stepped from the room, the stars were out, moons shining brightly. Only there were double the amounts of moons than there should have been. Daniel found it difficult to find his footing in the shifting sand and fell a number of times before he somehow managed to make it back to their tent. He didn't quite remember the entire walk, or how long it had taken.

Daniel suspected that Sha're had been furious with him when he finally did turn up. Again, he didn't quite remember, but he did recall when the nausea had finally overtaken him. Daniel barely made it outside the tent before he violently emptied the contents of his stomach onto the sand. He couldn't stop even when there was nothing left but bitter acid, and he tasted blood in his throat. And even when the acid and bile stopped coming up, he was wracked with dry heaves that left him shaking, huddled in a miserable ball on the cool night sand. He was unable to stand, unable to help Sha're drag him back inside.

Panicked, Sha're had called for the shaman to help her husband. The man looked Daniel over, then chuckled once he smelled the alcohol wafting from Daniel's clothes. He had helped Sha're bring him inside, then had given Daniel a vile tasting herbal concoction to drink, telling Sha're that no illness other than greediness had overtaken her husband.

Daniel had been sick for days with what he supposed was a severe case of alcohol poisoning. Nothing stayed in his stomach and the worst headache he could ever recall seemed to split his head open. He had to keep a cloth over his eyes, for even the dim light streaming inside sent bolts of agony through his retinas.

"This is madness, husband," Sha're had told him, sweat pouring from his body, his eyes glazed. He twisted his limbs up close to his body, shivering in the Abydonian summer. "The drink has summoned a demon in you. Your body does not wish it to be so." She wrung out a wet cloth and wiped it across his brow. "Shhhh, husband. Be still."

He couldn't believe the pain, the nausea, and the fear. Terrible, irrational fear. He couldn't seem to stop crying, and for what reason, he had no idea. Arabic and English, Japanese and German all blended together, a one-themed elegy to his miserable condition. What was worse than the nausea and the pain, was Sha're's quiet disappointment in him.

"Calm yourself, husband," Sha're would say, stripping her husband's body of the rank clothing.

"I'm cold," he would moan, winding his arms around his chest, huddling under the blankets.

"Shhhh, Danyel." The young bride covered her trembling husband with animal pelts, fed him sips of tea from her own hands, cleaned him when he became apoplectic, and reassured him when he cried out in humiliation. "Shhhh."

Then one day, Daniel opened his eyes and saw his new bride sleeping on a stack of sackcloth on the other side of the tent. And then he began to cry again. "What have I done?" he asked himself. He shielded his swollen eyes from the rest of the world and wept for the ruination he had brought onto himself and to this innocent young woman. "What have I done?"

"Here, husband," she said, offering him a bowl. "You must return the goodness to your body."

Daniel looked into the bowl, the contents of which seemed to have more substance than he did. With no dignity left on which to call, Daniel wept. "I'm sorry, Sha're. I'm…I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

She gathered him in her arms and cradled him there, this still foreign man whom she had brought into her tent.

"I'm sorry, Sha're," he choked out between the quiet, helpless sobs. "It'll never happen again. Please forgive me," he implored. In his thoughts, Daniel vowed to never touch the moonshine again. Never take another sip of wine, even during celebrations. Daniel began to fear not only for his sanity, but for the weakness within him that had allowed this to happen. That he had allowed his familiar outlet for escape to become a need.

It never did happen again. In the days and weeks that followed, Daniel resolved that for the rest of their lives, he would never pick up another cup of wine. In those tentative days, Daniel made restitutions and apologies to his neighbors, begged his father-in-law to forgive him, and publicly announced that he would bring only honor to his new home, which is what he did.

Despite his vow, on the day of Sha're's cousin's wedding, someone pressed a cup of wine in Daniel's hand. After a moment of indecision, he raised the cup to his lips, took a careful sip. He nursed the small cup for the entire affair and was silently pleased when that one cup was enough. He no longer felt the need to down an entire jug. Daniel felt a surge of relief, and he had to admit, pride that he had wrestled his 'demon' under control once more. And so he continued with his new life, finding that the contentment and love he had found was enough.

That is until Jack O'Neill and the Goa'uld converged on his home, his sanctuary. In a few short days, all that he had come to rely on was obliterated, and in its wake Daniel found himself back on Earth, a place in which he scarcely could find any comfort. A place where, once again, he didn't have a home.

Jack had offered him a place to stay that first night, and Daniel couldn't help but think he was too old for a new foster father. Foster fathers usually didn't offer Daniel beer, either. He declined the first beer, remembering his promise to Sha're, but when Jack began to question him, Daniel relented, rather than have to own up to his humiliating tale. So he nursed that beer, strangling the neck of it with all his might, hoping to lose the want, the need for more in his stories.

"So, have yourself a little party, did ya?" Jack asked, sipping from his bottle.

Daniel smiled at the memory. "Oh, yeah. Big…big party. They treated me like their savior," he said, allowing himself this moment of happiness. "It was, um…embarrassing."

"It's amazing you turned out so normal," Jack said, his voice dripping with condescension, but Daniel knew the truth. Daniel knew what Jack didn't know, that there was a time when things were decidedly abnormal. When everything he'd ever wanted was shifting away from him, like loose desert sand.

"Well, if it wasn't for Sha're, I probably…" But he couldn't go on. Anyone who needed to know about his terrible secret knew about it, and those people had forgiven him. Jack didn't know, didn't need to know, and Daniel certainly didn't need his forgiveness. "She was the complete opposite of everyone else," he told Jack, taking a seat on the couch. "She practically fell on the floor laughing every time I tried to do some chore that they all took for granted. Like, um, grinding yaphetta flour. I mean, have you ever tried to grind your own flour?"

"I'm trying to kick the flour thing," Jack said.

Daniel laughed, a nervous laugh, born of guilt and secrecy. He popped the bottle to his lips, a show of camaraderie, and laughed again. "This is going straight to my head," he lied, and took another sip seeing as how he felt no ill affects from the first few sips. Maybe it had been long enough. Maybe he could still handle a few drinks now and again.

Maybe he was lying to himself. He felt his skin break out in a cold sweat, and a panic swept over him. He had to get out of there, or he knew this one beer would turn into two, two would turn into a case, and then the promise he had made to Sha're would be gone. And he needed at least one thing to remain.

"What time is it anyway?" he asked, suddenly on his feet. "I must have…gatelag, or something."

"Daniel, for crying out loud, you've had one beer," Jack told him, having no idea the sting in his words. "You're a cheaper date than my wife was."

And there was Daniel's out—a chance to escape being the subject, of being under the microscope for a while, and when the pressure lessened, so too did the desire to empty not just the bottle in his hand, but every bottle in the house. His out was to question Jack about his wife, about his life. Shift the focus, and shift his mindset. That's all he needed. A distraction.

It became his saving grace, taking care of others, watching out for everyone else. Besides, that had always come naturally to him. For some reason, people always implicitly trusted him right from start, which made it all so much easier. If he threw himself into those endeavors, he didn't have to think about himself. He could remove himself from his own life. Jack could never understand why Daniel was always running into trouble. Of all people, Jack should have understood Daniel was only trying to run away from his own trouble.

But try as he might, sometimes trouble found him. Try as he might, he found escaping his demons was impossible, even in another galaxy.

* * *

tbc 


	8. Scattered Reflections pt 4

Sorry for the delay - that real life thing getting in the way again - but here's more!

Stargate SG-1 and its characters doesn't belong to us, etc. etc.

* * *

Scattered Reflections part 4

* * *

It just kept falling, over and over. All he could do was stand by, impotent and immobile, just like he had when he was a kid. A wire-sharp image of that one chain link breaking, that slab crashing down on his parents, again and again and again. Twenty-five years had passed, and it should have been his right, his goddamn right not to have to hear those screams anymore! It should have been his right not to have to question the culpability of his eight-year-old self. Of his parents. Of his mother. It should have been his right.

When they returned to the SGC, Daniel all but ran to his office, locked the door, and threw himself into his chair. It was the one place in the entire world where he'd be safe—and that was no accident. His office was never to be less than a place of purity in erudition and strength in intellect. It was a place to think, a place to learn, a place where he could do what he did best.

Okay, second best, he thought, and that's why he never brought anything but coffee into the office.

Not that he didn't have plenty of opportunities. Every Christmas, he and the other three member of SG-1 were given bottles of their favorite spirits. Daniel always accepted them gratefully, if not perplexed. He took great pains not to drink in front of his colleagues, so how was it they knew what he liked to drink? Of course, the answer was "Whatever you got." He'd shake the gift-giver's hand—usually Siler's—and walk off with the gift box, smiling. He'd walk it right to the nearest bathroom, where he'd pour the contents down the toilet and flush, usually twice—after all, you could still smell the Scotch after the first flush. Or at least Daniel could. He'd carry the box back out of the bathroom, nestled in his arm, and once again thank Siler, and thus kept his office completely free of any alcohol. Always.

Not like he didn't know where to find a drink on base if he needed one. He knew where every hidden bottle was in every office, storage area and locker. He knew because he had an eye for it. He'd be in the locker room and see a curiously stacked pile of manuals way at the top of someone's locker. Sure enough, there'd be a pint. He knew. He knew because he had hidden so many bottles in his younger years. It became an art. He was very good at it.

And so he locked himself in his office, and wished someone would barricade him in, because if there was ever a time in the recent years that he needed a drink—not wanted, but needed—it was this day. There was a live current scorching him from the inside out, his thoughts tripped over themselves, always agonizing and bursting with anger, with panic. He needed to get out of his head, and the only way he could do that was to…

"Daniel?" came the voice and then the soft taps on the door. "Daniel, you in there?"

Maybe if he didn't answer they'd go away. So he sat, his entire body abuzz with tension, and he mouthed the words "leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone." Why, he asked, couldn't the default he turned to when under duress be something different? Why did his mind, his body cry out for a drink?

"Come on, Daniel!" Jack crowed, slamming his hand against the door. "I know you're in there."

It would have so much easier if, say, when really upset his mind would scream, "God, I have to have a piece of fruit." But of course it didn't.

"Go away, Jack," Daniel yelled back, although his hands muffled the sound. A long silence followed, and Daniel was almost sad that Jack had left. But that changed the second he heard his door unlock. Daniel spun his chair around and charged the door.

"Now, wait!" Jack said, his hands and his passkey held up in front of him. "Before you start in, I did this out of…concern."

"Concern," Daniel repeated, his fist ready to punctuate the word in case the edge in his voice didn't do the job. "Concern. For me."

"Yes, you!"

"Yes, well," he said, turning away from Jack, scraping his hand through his hair and to the back of his neck, "I'm fine. Thanks for coming. You can leave now." But all he heard was the door shutting and Jack's feet shuffling through his office. Daniel swung around, ready to beat the hell out of Jack if he had to, but one way or another he'd get the man to leave.

"Here's what I figure," Jack said, completely disregarding the fire in Daniel's eyes. Jack rested his hands on the edge of Daniel's lab table and bunched his shoulders up around his ears. "We—you and I—just got rogered, but good. Not Carter, not Teal'c. The two of us. In my family, we had a saying…"

Daniel knotted his arms across his chest and unlocked his jaw just enough to let the words pass by. "Misery loves company?"

"No, misery loves whiskey, but, whatever, every family's different," Jack said, pushing away from the table, his hands in his pockets, looking beaten down, tired, and lost. "What we do—this job---sometimes it doesn't make a whole helluva lot of sense to me. Usually, I don't think about it. I give it a minute, if it doesn't come to me right away, then it's not worth my effort."

"You must have an enormous amount of free time," Daniel cracked, feeling his bones flair with the pain of anger and need.

"What I'm trying to say here, _Daniel_," Jack said, inoculating his words with a certain amount of bitterness, "is that we've had a rough day. _You've_ had a rough day." He lay his eyes on Daniel, unmoved, and squinted. "I'm reaching out here!" he said, waving his hands between them.

Daniel sucked in his lower lip and shook his head, felt the tightness in his back and shoulders. "Look, Jack, I appreciate the thought. I do. But I'm fine. Really. I just need to sort this out by myself. I-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's always about you, isn't it?" Jack said, screwing his face up into an expression of anger and despair. "What I'm trying to say—what you're soooo not getting is this," he said, and then even Jack could hear the pathetic tone of his voice. Daniel blinked and waited for the conclusion of yet another one of Jack O'Neill's tirades. "Look, Daniel, I need to get seriously drunk, but I don't want to do it alone," he finally said, speaking in a low, soft voice, as though embarrassed about admitting such an uncharacteristic vulnerability.

"Drunk," Daniel said, almost laughing at the irony. Here he was hiding out in his own alcohol-free zone, and it had come to him. Surely it was a sign.

"What I'm talking about is a six-pack, every bottle open, in a line, waiting to be emptied," Jack said, envisioning the scene as if it were before him. He could almost taste the first sip. "Oh, and you can have one, too."

"That's very generous of you." Daniel unwound his arms as well as the iron grip on his resolve. Maybe if Jack were with him watching how much he drank then he'd be okay. That was it, then. He was sure Sha're would understand. He was sure one beer wouldn't do anything but possibly calm him down, which he really, really needed. "One six-pack?"

"You think you'll need more?" Jack asked, standing a little straighter.

"Um, well, no," Daniel said, knowing full-well at some point it wouldn't be about how much he wanted, but about how many he could get. No, he'd stick with the plan: one, maybe two beers with Jack. Let Jack have the rest, and try to make every sip count.

"Okay, then," Jack said, spinning toward the door, but when Daniel didn't seem to be following, he looked back and said, "You coming?" Jack urged Daniel on with one wave of his shoulder.

Over the years, Daniel had come to know the difference between wanting and needing, and from the looks of things, Jack needed. So Daniel nodded, recognizing the deep, barely disguised pain in Jack's dark eyes. Violet shadows smudged the skin beneath those eyes, making Jack look much older, making him look world-weary. He nodded, and disregarded the klaxons in his head that screamed, "Stop!"

"Yeah, I'm coming."

The swiftness with which they were able to leave the mountain, stop at a convenience store, and be in Jack's living room was dizzying for Daniel. He had followed Jack through the streets of Colorado Springs, all the time denying the voice in his head that he should take the next right and go home. "Go home!" his mind seemed to scream at him, followed just as loudly by, "No! Jack is counting on you. Don't let him down."

No words were said walking up to Jack's front door. There was silence in the house, as well. Daniel poured himself into Jack's hearthside chair, resting his aching head on the back. He could hear the jangle of full bottles, a sound so different than empty bottles. Daniel could discern between the two—practice. He closed his eyes and repeated to himself that he would only have one or two, that's all. One or two.

Jack sauntered into the room, his fingers hooked around all six beers. He placed them in a row, popped the top off two and handed one to Daniel.

"I can't," is what he knew he should have said. "I'm under a tremendous amount of stress, and if I start drinking I may not stop." But Jack jostled the bottle his way, and that one tiny movement was all it took to brush aside Daniel's conscience.

The feeling of the cold glass bottle in his hand was equal parts comforting and terrifying. The yeasty smell wafted into his nose, and it was like his bloodstream had been jumpstarted. Perhaps it was enough just to sit with the bottle and smell it, kind of like a dieter who chews their food but never swallows. No, that wasn't dieting, he decided. That was an eating disorder, so what would smelling a beer instead of drinking it be?

The bitter liquid filled his mouth, flowed down his throat and settled with a pleasant heat in his stomach. He savored that first sip, as much for its effects as for the time it afforded him. He held tight to the neck of the bottle, and wedged it between his legs, licking the taste of the beer from his lips. "Slow…"

For the most part it worked. By the time Daniel finished his first beer, Jack was on his way to his third. Which made Daniel wonder about Jack's drinking habits. It also made Daniel wonder if he hadn't been too paranoid about his own. He reached for a second beer the same time Jack opened a fourth.

Everything about it Daniel liked--the explosion of air and aroma when the cap was turned; the feel of the slick sides of the bottle; the clank of the bottle cap hitting the coffee table—all of it. But especially the warmth that dribbled through his arms and legs. The dots of anesthetized skin that pocked his skull. The clarity and unhurried pace of his thoughts. _God, what was so wrong with this?_ he wondered.

"I haven't had a beer in a long time," he admitted to Jack, who simply nodded. "I'd forgotten how much I liked it."

Jack glanced up at that, surprise etching his features. Daniel realized his slip with a start. "Oh, well, ummm, relatively speaking. I mean. It's… it's been a while…you know…" Daniel brought the bottle to his mouth for one last draw, and so he wouldn't have to say anything else. God, how he had missed this feeling, slight as it was. His muscles began to relax. The twitching in his eyes went away. Every sip brought peace, and he had a head full of turmoil.

Far off in the kitchen—or was it only in his memory? —Daniel heard the distinctive sound of ice cubes tinkling in a glass. Again the warning bells went off in his head, but the melody they produced with the jangling ice cubes was delicious, like hand bells during a snowstorm. It was ever so faint, but he heard the _glug glug glug_ of something being poured out of a bottle. Twice.

"Yeah," he mumbled, knowing that that was a sound that signaled a peace treaty in his head. Daniel slid the empty beer bottle onto the table next to the others and plunked back in his chair, his hand on the armrest ready and waiting to accept a drink. He hoped Jack would have cut-glass tumblers. He always liked the feel of those in his hand. His professor, Dr. Jordan, had those. He thought someone else did, too, but he couldn't recall just who at the moment. But Daniel had many memories of sitting in his professor's home, along with Stephen and Sarah, drinking cocktails out of such glasses, discussing their theories, tearing each other apart.

"Good, Daniel," he remembered his professor saying, only loud enough for Daniel to hear. The old man would reach across the table and fill Daniel's sparkling glass with more of the drink, and Daniel's chest would nearly burst with pride. "Well done, Daniel."

Each memory started out clear, and each ended rather viscid. But always the heavy-based glass with diamond cuts in the side, and always filled with deep, rich liquor. It made the liquor look like jewels, like liquid gems. The etched glass also made it easier to hang onto once his fingers started losing their tactile ability.

Without asking, Jack placed the cup in Daniel's hand. Sure enough, cut glass, cold and not quite slick with condensation. Just enough liquor and ice in the glass to give it a good swish, but not enough to spill over the side. Daniel liked it just fine. He took a quick sniff and smelled cheap rye whiskey, topped with ginger ale. Daniel was surprised. Jack had always been a fan of the more expensive Irish brands, claiming it ran in his blood.

Seeming to read his thoughts, Jack shrugged, then sank heavily into his chair. "I'm out of the good stuff. Forgot to buy some more. I figured the beer would be enough." Jack pulled a hand over his mouth. "Guess I was wrong."

Daniel nodded and sat slumped, fatigue and almost forgotten grief washing over his body. He took a sip from his glass and the taste immediately transported him back to that long ago roof ledge, alone under a starry sky. The taste of rye, even masked with ginger ale, always made Daniel feel thirteen years old again, and tonight, considering the circumstances of their mission, it was oddly fitting.

Jack took a sip from his own drink. "Bye, bye Miss American Pie…" he softly sang under his breath, his voice fading before he took another longer, deeper swallow. "You know how many times I went over that mission in my head?" Jack suddenly asked, his words slurred. He tossed back the contents of his glass. "How many times I'd wished I'd held off that order for two seconds longer? Two seconds. Sometimes that's all it takes to make all the difference in the world."

Daniel nodded in understanding. "I know." _God, he knew._ In his mind, he'd replayed the last few seconds of his parents' lives more times than he could count. If he'd only reacted a few crucial seconds earlier. If he'd been paying attention, would his warning have been enough to save them? He'd replayed those few seconds in his head so many times it had nearly driven him crazy, but it never changed anything, did it? Thoughts were just thoughts. They had no power to change anything.

"You know what I don't get?" Jack said, sloshing around his drink, looking off into the distance at something only he could see.

"What?" Daniel asked, not really paying attention to Jack. Instead, he focused on watching the reflected flames dancing across his glass, sparkling in varying shades of red, gold and orange the exact shade of the setting suns on Abydos.

"Why _that_ mission? Why that particular incident in my life? God, Daniel, I have so many regrets, so many things I'd like to do over, I can't even begin to count."

Daniel glanced up at that. Even in the fog of his pleasant buzz, the pain in Jack's voice took Daniel by surprise. He didn't know what to say in reply. His eyes locked with Jack's as he watched his friend's dark eyes brighten with emotion.

"If I had the choice to go back and change one thing, it wouldn't have been that. If there was one person I could go back and save… it would have been... been my…" Jack shook his head, pressed his hand hard over his eyes.

_My son._

The unspoken words hung heavily between them.

Daniel blinked against tears stinging his eyes. Parents and their children, how they unwittingly hurt each other. What the children do to destroy their parents, what the parents do to destroy their child—it never ended. What had he to learn from his parents' death? What could he have known about them that might have changed things? We are our parents, and our parents are us, he thought, and if that's so…

"Just a little boy," Daniel whispered, unaware that his quietly spoken words were oddly fitting for both his and Jack's thoughts while a bubble of a memory surfaced in his head.

The water in the tub kept getting colder and colder, and he kept calling his mother, but every time she passed the bathroom, she'd just look in and mumble something. And he'd call to her—"Mom, can I get out now?"—and when he began to shiver, he climbed out on his own, all of five years. The rest of the house was quiet, and Daniel knew his mother was asleep on the couch, the thing that always happened soon after she began stumbling around the house. _She must be so tired_, he remembered thinking.

It wasn't until he was in college that he realized his mother wasn't tired all those years. It wasn't that she didn't care that the water was cold or that the rice had boiled down and was burning. Daniel pressed the cold glass against his forehead and asked Jack to fill it again.

"I mean, don't get me wrong—I regret that mission, but…" Jack shook his head while he poured two fingers of straight rye in Daniel's glass. He replaced the bottle on the table and slumped back down onto the couch. "God…" Jack dropped his head, shook it as though to clear it from thoughts of what could have been, things he was powerless to change no matter how greatly he wished for it.

"There was nothing you could have done," Daniel said, although to whom, he wasn't quite sure. His attention wove over and under the threads of time, picking up a string of Jack's regrets here, a string of his own there. Over and under, over and under, until his head began to spin. Missions and mistakes, all part of the pattern.

Jack had had enough introspection. It was futile, at best, excruciating, at worst. He found his way to his feet, a tentative hold on the vertical, and grasped Daniel's shoulder hard as he passed. Daniel wasn't sure if it was a gesture of friendship, or if Jack merely needed the support to stay upright.

Daniel lightly touched Jack's hand before he let go. Jack muttered something about going to bed, and disappeared. Daniel heard a door close, and he sank back in his chair. He had enough presence of mind to hope that Jack would be able to sleep it off. Be able to forget.

We should all forget, he decided. Forget that mistakes happen. Forget that sometimes they actually did happen for a reason. That sometimes, when you should have been razor sharp to make crucial decision, you weren't, and then mistakes happened, and the worst part was when only you knew.

_Did my mother know? In that last second before it fell, was that fear, or was it a sudden realization of a bad decision?_

"God," he whispered, rolling the sweating glass over his brow. "Oh, my God…"

And so one voice had turned off, and another one had turned up. He no longer heard the voice of reason, only the voice of recrimination.

"God, Mom…"

The bottle he and Jack had been drinking from was still half full. He didn't want to drink the rest of the liquor, knew he shouldn't, but every time he blinked, every time he tried to close his eyes, he saw that slab crashing to the ground. In the silence of the darkened house, he could still hear the echoes of his parents' screams in his ears. He could still hear his own troubling, burdensome questions.

Before he had another moment to contemplate, Daniel reached for the rye, poured more into his glass and took a long swallow, squeezing his eyes shut against the burn in his throat. The liquid pooled in his stomach, and a barely perceptible heat spread through him. Daniel set down the bottle, took a few deep breaths, cradling his heavy head in his hand for a moment.

Taking the glass and the bottle with him, Daniel moved from the chair to the couch and sank into the soft cushions. Sitting alone on Jack's couch, Daniel slowly sipped from his glass, refilling it more than once, but forcing himself to stop before finishing the bottle. His eyelids began to droop, and when he allowed them to close, he was relieved to see nothing but black. In the silence of the room, there was just that—silence. No screams, no regrets, no questions. Just silence.

Daniel slid down the couch until he was curled up on his side and allowed the welcoming darkness and silence to take him. His breathing slowed; his thoughts slowed; the regrets slipped away.

"Daniel."

Daniel brushed his hand through the air, hoping to rid himself of this one last distraction.

"Daniel, get up."

"Shhhh…."

"Come on, Daniel!" Jack barked, kicking the legs of the couch. "Get up."

Daniel pulled his tongue off the roof of his mouth and crushed his palm into his eye socket. "I just got to sleep, Jack. I'm tired. Let me sleep."

"What the hell were you doing all night, then?" Jack asked, picking up empty glasses and bottles from his coffee table.

"All night?" Daniel said, letting his legs slop over the side of the couch. He dropped his head into his hands and wrestled with his memory. "No. I just had a drink with you. You went to bed. I had a couple more drinks…"

"Looks like you had more than a couple," Jack said, lifting the near empty bottle of rye—well, it was pretty much empty, there wasn't enough for even a shot. Jack picked up the empty beer bottles, hanging each one off the tips of his fingers, and when he did they clinked together.

Daniel pried open one eye and took a blurry look at the noisy bottles, at the large bottle of rye he had emptied, but when?

"God," he mumbled, knowing what had happened, even if he couldn't quite remember it. Not counting that slip on Abydos, it had been years since it last happened, but he was well aware of the signs—empty containers, loss of time, a feeling like he was still much too drunk to meet the day. "Oh, God…"

"Yeah, well, I'll make coffee. You go get cleaned up. Our country awaits our service, hung over or not…"

"I'm sorry, Jack," Daniel said, truly and shamefully remorseful for what he had done.

"Don't worry about it. It was a tough night for…" Jack started and stopped. Best to let sleeping dogs not cross over that bridge, he thought. "Just hit the shower. Coffee'll be ready in a minute."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, not to Jack, but to Sha're for that first broken promise. He whispered his penance, and hoped somehow his words would reach her, because he knew she'd know he had betrayed her again. He only wished the betrayal had at least eased the ache in his heart—that it had been worth it. Instead, it had only made it worse. And what was worse still was the fact that Daniel had three weeks until his next schedule mission. Three weeks of evenings all to himself, alone with nothing save the recriminations.

Well, he reasoned, one betrayal usually led to another, didn't it? What difference could he make to Sha're in these next weeks anyway? He'd always known that he didn't deserved her and so Daniel decided to become the worst possible image of himself he could muster. When he was outside the SGC and safely within the privacy of his own home, he set out to prove it by throwing back drink after drink after drink.

Never enough that anyone at the SGC would notice. His guilt belonged to his personal hours, not his business hours. He didn't know if it were lucky for him or for the helpless slobs on the other side of the event horizon those three weeks that they weren't scheduled for any off-world missions. Which suited him fine, because he had decided on a regimen for his time, one that required strict adherence if he didn't want to allow his so-called private life to overflow into his professional one.

He'd go to base, shuffle through his paperwork, come home, a fifth of Scotch, a sharp cut glass and the bowl of ice set on the coffee table before him—no more, no less. Only that which was required to paste on a good veneer of peace. On those nights when he'd have to stay late in the mountain, he'd buy the Scotch or the gin or the rye (if he was feeling particularly miserable) at the nearest liquor store and begin to drink it on the long drive home, just so his schedule wouldn't be off—home by seven, drunk by ten, awake by six, sober by…Sometimes that varied. Work all day, and begin again.

It was a well-crafted schedule, which left little or no room to question anything.

Until the morning before the mission to Shyla's planet, the place of Daniel's second broken promise and betrayal of Sha're. His phone would not stop ringing, and his beeper refused to stop beeping. Finally, in the middle of the night, Daniel tore off the covers and pitched his beeper across the room.

That's when he noticed the sunshine flooding the room.

"Shit!" he said, searching through his bedding for his watch. "Dammit, where is it?"

And then the phone was ringing again. He ripped it off the hook. "Yes! Hello! What?!"

"Daniel?"

He looked around the room, breathless, his fingers knotted in his hair. "Sam?"

"Where are you? We're scheduled to leave in forty-five minutes."

"Shit…" he cried, wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder, jumping into whatever pants he could find on his floor. "Aaahhh, the electricity must have…I don't know…Shit! Does Jack know?"

"Well, yeah. He's been trying to call you, too."

"Shit!" Daniel fumbled with the phone while tearing his hand through a shirtsleeve, inside out. "Okay, look, I'll be there…Um…Shit!"

"Look, don't kill yourself getting here. I'll find a way to stall. There's always a diagnostic I can run," she said, although he could hear the impatience in her voice.

"I'm sorry, Sam. Tell Jack…Tell him…"

"I know. You're on your way."

"I am." With that, he ended the call, ripped off the shirt that wasn't cooperating, and jerked a T-shirt over his head instead. He threw on his polar fleece jacket, scooped up his phone, his beeper and his keys, and was out the door.

An empty fifth of Scotch, a glass and a bowl of water were left behind.

In retrospect, he did have one good thing to say about being stuck in the naquaada mines—everyone else looked and felt as miserable as he did.

So when he did finally come back to the SGC, there was no way that any of them knew that his symptoms were not only from the sarcophagus, but also for the fact that his body craved alcohol, the way a diabetic craved insulin.

He needed so much in those days, he couldn't even distinguish between what that might be. He just knew there was a buzzing in his chest and head, like a nest of highly angry hornets. Something had to give. Someone had to give. What he wouldn't have done for a drink, for one more moment in that amazing box, for…God! Let me out!

After that, he couldn't really recollect much, something for which he was grateful, but he vaguely remembered breaking down and sobbing in Jack's arms. Scarcely recalled three pairs of arms pulling him free from Jack's embrace, lifting him then strapping him to a gurney.

The first few days after that passed in an endless nightmare of pain, the feeling that his skin was on fire, that thousands of ants were biting him all at the same time. That if they didn't let him go back to the sarcophagus, let him have one drink, he would surely die.

"Can't you see that I'm dying?!" he'd scream at them, but of course they couldn't see. They had no eyes. Their limbs were serpents biting at his fingers and toes. Their clothing sheets of lava.

He'd _wanted_ to die in those first few days. He couldn't stand it anymore after a few nights. When Jack came into his isolation room to baby sit him as he'd been doing right from the start, Daniel had begged and pleaded for Jack to just let him die. If Jack wouldn't let him go back, then it was more merciful to just shoot him.

One of those endless nights, he'd dreamed about sand and heat. In the distance, Daniel could see a sarcophagus, lid open, waiting for him. All he had to do was reach it. Only no matter how far Daniel slogged through the deep, shifting sand, his breath rasping in his lungs, the intense sun burning relentlessly down on him, he never came close enough to reach it. With each step he took, he sank further into the sand until it was up to his chest. Then his chin, then over his head, and when he opened his mouth to scream, it filled with sand, granules heated from the sun pulling into his lungs, choking him, drowning him.

He'd woken screaming, gulping in air as though he'd truly been drowning in sand, in his own need, his heart pounding so hard his chest ached. Strong hands gripped his upper arms shaking him. He heard his name being shouted over and over again and struggled to pull himself from the dream, the terror.

"Daniel, come on! Wake up!"

The hands moved to grip his face, one taking firm hold of his chin. Daniel's eyes flew open and he stared into dark eyes. It took a moment for him to realize they were Jack's eyes. He was simultaneously grateful to Jack for being there to pull him from his nightmare and wishing he would go away so Daniel could just get this dying over with alone.

"It's okay," Jack said in a quiet, soothing voice, his hand stroking Daniel's sweat-dampened, tear-stained face. "It was just a dream."

Daniel shivered even though he was drenched in sweat, and the compassion in Jack's voice and in his touch was what undid him. He tried to choke back a sob, but he was too tired, too worn out. He began to cry, hoarse rasping sobs tearing from his throat. Jack tried to comfort him, tried to put his arm around him, but Daniel pulled away, ashamed of his tears, and the fact that his skin ached and burned so excruciatingly that even the slightest touch was agony.

Jack didn't touch him again, only sat beside him on the floor Daniel had somehow ended up on. The room was nearly empty, containing only a cot and a small adjoining bathroom, almost like a prison cell, and Daniel supposed he deserved it. Jack watched while the tears poured down Daniel's face as he rocked himself in an attempt to ease the pain. Jack began to murmur meaningless words of comfort, even telling him jokes in an attempt to distract him.

In those long hours, Daniel wanted to tell Jack the truth. Wanted to tell him that it wasn't just the withdrawal from the sarcophagus that was killing him. That he wanted a drink so badly he was willing to do just about anything for it. He had even been willing to shoot his best friend—that much Daniel remembered, and his capacity for darkness terrified him.

Daniel wanted to tell Jack. But he couldn't.

He was afraid the confession would shatter something he and Jack shared. For some reason Daniel couldn't fathom, Jack was able to empathize with this strange addiction, but Daniel wasn't sure Jack would be so understanding about the drinking. He knew Jack's sympathies only went so far. How could Daniel even expect Jack to empathize with the fact that Daniel had let it become such a huge part of his life?

No, Daniel couldn't tell him. He'd ride this out, even if it almost killed him.

And then he'd be better. He'd put it behind him. He knew he'd never be able to live through this kind of pain again. Yes, he had learned his lesson, all right. This pain, this agony would ultimately be worth every moment. Yes, he had finally learned his lesson.

Unexpectedly seeing Sha're again after a long, endless year only to have to leave her behind once more would have been enough to send him off the deep end again had Daniel not been left with a sense of hope that she could still be saved. At least he finally knew that Sha're was still his beautiful wife even with that parasite within her. She was so strong, much stronger than Daniel had ever been.

That final look she had given him before stepping through the gate seemed to say, "I'm all right, Daniel. Wait for me, and don't give up on me. We will fight this demon and win."

In that moment when their eyes had met, he was filled with a terrible sense of shame and remorse for his actions since the day he'd first said goodbye to the Abydonians. He promised to make it up to Sha're—she deserved so much more than he'd ever been able to give her. He'd prove himself worthy of her, and he vowed to one day safeguard her child as though he were Daniel's own. Daniel could only hope his returning gaze had shown her all this. That it had lent her some hope of her own.

Daniel was certain it was hope alone that saw him through the next year, which passed by in a blur of so many missions gone wrong he wondered how all of them had managed to hold onto their sanity.

Well, Daniel, more or less. The time he'd spent trapped in a nightmare cell of stark white, like pure nothingness, was a place he'd feared he'd become forever trapped. Lost time in a haze of terror so complete his mind still shied away from thinking of it. And so he didn't. It was easier that way.

Daniel thought he'd coped reasonably well during the times of the chaos within his team that followed. Too many missions gone awry, too many words that shouldn't have been spoken, and words that should have been. There had been too much going on to be able to dwell on any past regrets, or indulge in old coping mechanisms. Too much to do.

He thought was doing just fine, had everything under control until that fateful day on Abydos once more. He'd never imagined that the last time he'd see Sha're alive would be at their home, the one place where she should have been safe.

On the day Sha're died, and Daniel's hope had died along with her, he'd been in too much shock and pain from the ribbon device to fully comprehend what had transpired. Even when Jack had wheeled him into the cold, sterile, metallic room where they'd taken her body, all the while feeling a strange sense of deju vu, Daniel's mind still refused to comprehend the implications of what had happened. From even fully taking in the grayness, the stillness of her beautiful features.

It wasn't until nearly a week later when Janet had released him from the infirmary that Daniel finally understood. That everything that mattered to him had ended. When they'd returned from her funeral, Daniel evaded his friends' concerns, their invitations to stay with them. All he wanted was to be alone.

On the second day of his alienation, he was steeped in what seemed like an endless landscape of things that had ended. It was that moment when he remembered another thing that had died with Sha're—his promise never to drink again. It just didn't seem to matter anymore whether he was sober or drunk, and if he had to live with that much pain, then, by God, it was going to have to get past the alcohol first. Ten minutes later, he had taken one hundred dollars out of his account and was off to the liquor store. No need for fancy cut-glass tumblers, and no need for ice, Daniel paid for as much alcohol as he could buy and carried it up the stairs to his apartment, where he began to drink it straight from the bottle.

The first few swallows made him cough, made his throat burn and lungs sear, but he kept drinking. He had to fill the churning emptiness with something. Had to tune out the incessant voice reminding him that he had failed her. That his life was rapidly amounting to one big failure.

He drank nearly an entire bottle in one night.

He'd woken at 4:00am and had become so sick he feared he'd ruptured something in his stomach, but the fact that he'd been able to sleep even a few hours made it worth it.

When that bottle was gone, he dipped into his bag and started on another one. When those bottles were gone—they lasted only three days?—he took out another hundred bucks and bought another bagful. It wasn't like he needed the money to buy his wife a present or…or a proper wedding ring. No, he didn't need to do that anymore. What the hell was he going to do with all that money he had been saving? No, Sha're was gone, and he had nowhere to go, and nothing to save for, not anymore. He didn't even want to save himself.

And so he'd continued for two weeks. Some days, he felt too nauseated to drink anything, and those days were spent in a blur of sleeping, pacing, trying to distract himself, his head throbbing and aching with scorching pain. Finally, he'd give up and start again, only it wasn't helping, and the confines of his apartment were starting to make him antsy, almost claustrophobic.

Two nights ago, which felt more like an eternity, he'd ventured out into the cold rainy night and had tried to drown his sorrows in that seedy hole-in-the-wall bar, but of course it hadn't helped. All he'd succeeded in doing was alerting Jack to just how messed up he was.

Following the second night at Jack's house, Daniel had woken in the morning feeling muzzy, disoriented. He couldn't figure out where he was until he'd sat up in bed and looked around. The plain furniture and sparsely decorated room suddenly became as familiar as Daniel's own. Jack's guestroom—lord knows Daniel had spent enough nights in this room. Even though he'd slept straight through the night, he still felt exhausted, unable to focus. His broken hand didn't even twinge and he took a moment to wonder about that.

Then he remembered the pills he'd taken. Three times the dosage he had been instructed to take. Maybe that hadn't been such a good idea after all. Pulling himself from bed and dragging himself to a standing position, the world wavered for a moment, and Daniel's legs nearly buckled.

Holding onto the walls for support, he made his way to the bathroom and took a hot shower, hoping to clear his head.

Jack was waiting in the kitchen for Daniel, and when he did finally appear, Jack handed him a cup of coffee. When he'd finished his coffee, Jack had retrieved Daniel's jacket, and Jack held his own car keys in his hand. Jack was keeping his promise, and despite his trepidation of the night before, Daniel was greatly relieved. Relieved that Jack didn't want to talk anymore, relieved that he didn't have to ask to be taken home. Relieved that Jack didn't feel the need to walk him up to his apartment. His apartment was a satellite of his mind—a place where secrets were safe. Unless you were careless enough to let others in. He had almost let Jack into this innermost thoughts. Somehow he had managed not to.

Keeping Jack out of his apartment turned out to be a much easier proposal.

As soon as Daniel stepped inside, finally safe from Jack's too perceptive scrutiny, for the first time, he saw the disorder, the chaos strewn about his normally tidy home. Daniel realized his place wasn't the sanctuary it was supposed to be. When he was a kid, Daniel couldn't wait to have his own home. A place where he could do whatever he wanted, a place where anyone was welcome, a place to be safe.

Except, the truth was, his home had become a place not only to hide out, but a place he had to keep hidden from others. Somehow, that ruined it. Somehow, he had made his home the embodiment of his secret, and no home, no matter how small should ever be reduced to that.

When he'd ventured out onto the balcony, the only place that didn't contain the evidence of his downfall, that was when the realization hit him the hardest. That was why he hadn't wanted to go back inside, even when the medication had started to wear off. Daniel's nerve endings had suddenly felt charged. He was still exhausted, but such a need rushed through him. A need he had to fight off. He couldn't keep this up, but he'd made a promise to Jack, a new promise, and he fully intended to keep it.

Sitting alone on his couch, Daniel saw something in the photograph he had never seen before. He got to his feet, holding his good hand out to steady himself before taking the photo down from the shelf.

Next to his mother on that slab of cement, almost obscured by a flap of material in her skirt, was the glint of the sun's rays sparkling off the rim of a glass. A sharp, cut glass tumbler, just like the ones Daniel always liked so much. Each gash in the tumbler refracted the light, and the thing sparkled. Daniel couldn't believe he hadn't seen it before.

What was more, he couldn't believe he'd never realized that he'd been following in his mother's footsteps in more ways than one. There were a lot of things he hadn't seen before. A lot of things he couldn't handle seeing anymore.

His fingers grazed the image, and he sniffled, swiped a hand under his nose. He placed the photo back where it belonged, and stood motionless in his cluttered apartment.

When the phone rang, Daniel jumped, startled. His nerves and muscles no longer seemed to be vibrating with adrenaline, now he was just tired. Everything felt heavy, leaden. His head throbbed with a dull, relentless ache that matched the one in his hand. The answering machine had been set to pick up after one ring, and he didn't bother to try to catch the call. Sam's voice came on after a moment.

"Daniel? Are you there?" A long pause. "Daniel, pick up!" Another pause. "Okay, well, you're probably sleeping, so I'll call you later. The colonel told me about your hand, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay, and if you needed anything."

Sam's voice paused again. Even as dazed as he was, Daniel thought it was funny that even off-duty, Sam couldn't call Jack by name.

"Well, I'll talk to you later, okay, Daniel?" Sam's voice sounded again. "Make sure you eat something, all right? Bye."

The machine clicked and shut off. Daniel probably should have picked up, but hell, he'd just spent two days with Jack fussing over and lecturing him. Sam would only fuss even more and in his brittle state, Daniel knew he couldn't handle that.

But Sam had a point—maybe he _would_ feel better if he got something to eat.

Stumbling to the kitchen, Daniel had a look in his fridge. Nothing there but a half-empty tub of margarine, a slice of pizza moldering on a plate, some stale bread.

Making a quick decision, he pulled open the cupboard above the fridge, the one that had tempted him all day. He was astonished to find nothing but almost empty bottles. A swallow of vodka, a ring of scotch darkening the bottom edge of the ornate bottle. A couple of other empties whose labels he didn't bother to read. The knowledge that his stash was gone sent a wave of pure fear through him. Whether the fear stemmed from the fact that he had nothing to drink, or from the fact that he'd drunk so much, he didn't know. All he did know was he had to get out of his apartment. Now.

He stumbled to the bedroom, and pulling on a heavy sweater and baseball cap to cover his still damp hair, he headed for the door, went outside to walk to the corner store. He'd pick up something fast, something with too many calories and too little substance. Something that would fill the void.

As he strolled through the aisles, he walked past the coolers. Paused at the cases of beer. A voice in his head screamed at him to keep moving, but he was rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the brightly colored boxes.

It was only beer, one six pack wasn't enough to set him over the edge again, was it? Maybe he'd only drink two, toss the rest. No, he wouldn't do that. _Keep going,_ he told himself.

He yanked open the insulated glass door a few steps up, a plumb of fog exploded out, and Daniel reached in. When his arm came back out, in his hand was a frozen pizza. He didn't bother to look what kind of pizza he'd grabbed. It didn't matter anyway. It was high in protein, easy enough to make. He could do that. And maybe some macaroni and cheese. He yanked open a second door and grabbed a red box, glittering with ice crystals. He took a deep breath and found he was already beginning to feel better, stronger.

Strengthening his resolve, he walked up to the cash register. He was surprised when his good hand began to tremble so badly he nearly dropped the frozen pizza and TV dinner he held.

The young cashier, who appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties, noticed the cast on his other hand. "You need some help?"

Daniel offered her a flustered smile as he placed the items on the counter. "No, I'm fine. Thank you."

"Will this be everything?" she asked as she began to ring in his purchases

Daniel nodded, blinked against a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness pouring over him. He stumbled and grabbed onto the counter to steady himself. The girl stared at him with wide, fearful eyes, as though she was afraid he'd puke all over her clean counter, or pull a knife on her.

"Sorry, it's been a… a rough few days." He smiled shyly, pushed up his cap and glanced at her from under his eyelashes, raising his injured hand in explanation. "The pain medication makes me a little dizzy."

The cashier visibly relaxed. "Oh, right. I have bad reactions to medication, too. How did you hurt your hand?"

Daniel shrugged, glanced down at the hand in question. "Just a little home renovating mishap. Stupid accident, really." He tried to smile at the girl again, but was still trembling so badly he wondered if she could see it.

"That's too bad," she said. "I dislocated my shoulder once—it hurt like hell."

Daniel nodded, licked his dry lips, and before he could reconsider, he said, "Um, actually, I did forgot one thing. Be right back." On legs that felt ready to buckle at any moment, he strode quickly back to the cooler, grabbed a six pack of the beer and returned it to the counter. He kept his thoughts carefully blank, refusing to think about anything but getting his purchases home.

The cashier bagged his groceries, handed the plastic bag to him, then helped tuck the six pack under his left arm.

"Thank you," he said, offering her another faint smile. He was dismayed by the fact that even his voice was shaking and wondered how he was going to get home. No, he could do it. All he'd have was one beer when he got home. One would be all he needed to help him ride this out. Two at the very most. He knew he was breaking yet another promise but people make promises all the time—friends make promises to friends, husbands to wives, lovers to lovers. Mothers make promises to their sons that "it'll never happen again." Funny how sons learn to make the same promises.

Besides, what Jack didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

The girl blushed and gave him a sunny smile, her eyes brightening with interest and attraction, but Daniel was oblivious to it. His only concern was getting back home and drinking himself into some semblance of normalcy.

"Take care of that hand, okay?"

"I will."

Daniel pushed open the door and headed back outside into the cool twilight. Facing his demons could wait one more night.

* * *

tbc


	9. Chapter 4: Reparations pt 1

And here we go... the final chapter! Umm... part 1. And it only took us two years to write this one! Wheee! Break open the champagne! Please bear with us as we put the final finishing touches on this puppy and will post the remaining parts as quickly as possible.

A wee bit of a language warning throughout, but it's nothing you haven't heard on Deadwood 67 times an episode...

* * *

Chapter 4 - Reparations part 1

* * *

With just under ten minutes left before he was expected in the gateroom, Daniel pounded his fist against the bookcase.

"Come on! Where is it?" he said, his tension strangling the words. All he needed to find was that one book—_Empirical Restrictions on the Power of Transformational Grammar_—and he could join the rest of the team for their mission. One book, that's all. Just find it, and go.

When his radio crackled to life, Daniel flinched. His hand slapped to his shoulder, hoping to intercept what he knew would be an impatient inquiry on the other end.

"Give me five more minutes," Daniel said, cramming the radio to his mouth. "Please."

"You've got three."

Daniel nodded and released the radio, knowing full well that Jack wouldn't actually leave without him. Still, rather than risk having Jack burst into Daniel's office, blasting out one curse word after another, Daniel decided a better course of action would be to just find the damn book as quickly as possible, and then run to the embarkation room. Equally as quickly as possible.

"Dammit!" he snarled, running his fingers over the spines of the books. His nerves were beginning to spark, his skin beginning to prickle and dampen. He was nearing the point of tossing each book from the shelf when his focus lighted on the book, fourth one in, on the top shelf.

Daniel let out a relieved gush of air, tore the book from the shelf and slammed it onto his desk. Placing one foot on the bottom shelf, Daniel hoisted himself high enough to reach the back of the top shelf, his fingers stretching to meet what he hoped would be there. The bookcase rattled and creaked, straining to support his weight but he ignored it. All that mattered was getting what he needed.

And there it was. Cool and smooth, tipping slightly when his fingers glanced it before actually grasping it, Daniel pulled down from the shelf a flashlight. Reaching out his free hand, he took hold of the grammar book. He shimmied the book back in place, grumbling to himself that after all the money he had paid for the damn thing he was finally getting some use out of it, and turned his back to the shelves.

"Light 'em up," he said, screwing the top off the flashlight. He brought the handle to his lips and poured from the metal tube a mouthful of vodka. And then two mouthfuls. Always vodka at work. Gin or scotch at home, whiskey at the bar, wine with Sam, but vodka at work. And it wasn't as though deciding to keep a small stash safely hidden in his office was such a big deal. In fact, he began to wonder why he'd been so fastidious in that rule for so long. After all, some rules were made to be broken, especially if they weren't anyone's business but his own.

As the alcohol simultaneously burned and cooled his throat, Daniel closed his eyes, enjoying the immediate placidity, loving that unmistakable cold of alcohol evaporating on his lips. No one would ever understand the instant relief it brought him. They'd never be able to appreciate how much these few sips helped him get through the day, and he had no plans to try to explain it to anyone either. Besides, why try to explain that which didn't need fixing?

He took one more long, slow sip, letting it pool in his mouth before swallowing, and checked his watch. He screwed the top back on the flashlight, turned it upside down to check the seal, and opened his off-world pack. Daniel pushed aside the paraphernalia which he had crammed into the pack, and lodged the flashlight upright toward the bottom.

Not that he'd use it off world. He had another rule—never off world. That was one rule he had no intention of breaking. Still, it was better to have it than not. Just in case. Although in case of what, he was never certain. And this morning, after the night he had been through (most of which he had little memory), he needed it. Just a couple swallows. Just enough to calm down. Like the saying went, a hair of the dog…

Okay, sure, if he were forced to admit it, Daniel would have to say it was getting beyond a hair of the dog and more toward the entire coat.

And he wasn't sure how that had happened, at least not so quickly. Well, maybe he knew…

He had known he was getting bad, had known he should cut back, and so he'd resolved to do just that. For three days he didn't drink. It was difficult, but he had managed. So when he woke up one morning with stabbing pains in his gut he took it in stride, called in sick, and went back to bed. When, two hours later, he woke up drenched in sweat, nauseous and in worse pain, he began to panic. He knew about withdrawal symptoms, and he knew what to look for, but he'd never been that bad before. Never.

"What the hell have I done?" he asked himself, but before he could answer his own question, Daniel doubled over in pain. Somehow he made it to the bathroom before he vomited. Crawling on his hands and knees, Daniel inched toward his bedroom, where he hoped to God he had left his phone. He slung his body against his bed, blindly reached up to the bedside table and found his phone.

"This is Doctor Fraiser."

"Janet?"

"Daniel?"

Daniel lodged the phone between his ear and the bed, clutched his midsection and began to pant in an effort to control the pain. "I'm sick, Janet."

"Okay, do you need me to…"

"I think I need an ambulance. I…" Daniel dropped his head back against the mattress, closing his eyes, sweat beading and dripping down his forehead.

"All right. Help is on the way, but you have to hang up now. Do you hear me, Daniel?"

Of course, he didn't hear anything after that, and he didn't care what he was going to have to tell her, and he didn't care if he ever drank another thing in his life. In that endless fog of pain, fear and waiting for help to arrive, he made a promise to himself that he wouldn't drink again. If he could just get through this and come out okay, he'd never touch another drop ever again, and…

Two days later he woke up in the infirmary, ready to answer for his condition.

"Well, hello there, stranger," Janet said, smiling down at him. "How do you feel?"

"I, uh…" Daniel hardly knew where to begin. _I feel ashamed, I feel tired, I feel sick, I feel…_

"You had us worried for a while. Another few minutes and your appendix would have ruptured." Janet reached out and grasped Daniel's hand.

"My…my what?" Daniel asked, shaking his head in confusion. It was difficult to focus through the fog of medication and the need to close his heavy eyelids and go back to sleep.

"You had probably the worst appendicitis I have ever seen, and now you have a lovely scar as a souvenir," she told him continuing to offer him the softest of smiles.

Daniel closed his eyes and nodded, finding the diagnosis hard to believe. He even had to stifle an urge to laugh.

_Appendicitis of all things, _he thought. _How stupid, how insignificant, and how incredible that it nearly killed me. _Even after all the binges and all the times he'd willfully drunk himself into a state of near catatonia, he'd never once considered what damage he was inflicting upon himself. Until a few days ago, that is. For the first time in a very long time, he'd experienced genuine fear for his life. Fear that he'd finally managed to really do himself in this time. And here it was—something as seemingly innocuous as appendicitis. Funny how life worked.

Chiding himself for being so paranoid, Daniel decided to take the news of the ailment for what it was—a sign that it was time to start fresh.

And he did. His body free of alcohol, Daniel felt like he'd been given a second chance. He made a pact with himself to eat better, to exercise, to focus on his work. Focus. He just needed to focus. He had let it get away from him, but now he was back on track.

Focus.

Which is what he did.

Until the Replicators came to town, and Daniel was forced to make another in a long line of terrible decisions.

If anything merited a drink, that day certainly qualified.

That day turned into a week, when he was supposed to still be recuperating from surgery. That week turned into a month, and by the time his medical leave was up, Daniel had returned completely to his routine.

Routines, he decided, were good for a person. They made things easier to understand and deal with. As long as his routine, his only one, true habit didn't get in the way of work, there was no reason to change it.

"Daniel!" cracked his radio.

"I'm on my way!" he shouted in frustrated reply. Daniel began to head for the door, then remembered something. Tearing open his desk drawer, he grabbed the travel-sized bottle of aftershave he kept there for such instances and dumped a generous amount in his palm. Even though vodka didn't give any tell-tale odor, it was best not to take any chances. Swiping his hand over his face, neck and even the front of his T-shirt, Daniel planned to tell his team that he'd spilled. Closing the cap on the bottle, he tossed it onto the desk, forgetting to shut the drawer and leaving it gaping open.

As he dashed down the hall, from the breast pocket of his vest, Daniel pulled a wad of grape flavored bubble gum and jammed it in his mouth. The stuff tasted awful and smelled even worse but the stink overrode anything and everything else—a theory he'd tested and proven as far back as high school when in between classes, he'd sneak swigs of whiskey from a thermos.

As he ran toward the gateroom, Daniel's pack bounced and sloshed across his back, and he began to sweat, grinding the gum with his teeth. He reached the gate room just as the fifth chevron engaged.

"I'm here! I'm…here!" Daniel gasped, filing in line with the others.

"This is a good time for you, I hope," Jack said, eyeing Daniel. "I mean, if it's not…"

"Jack…"

"Did you get your book?" Sam asked, but something in her tone told Daniel she really didn't care about his book.

Daniel adjusted his pack and said, "No. I mean, yes. I found what I was looking for."

"What's that smell?" Sam said, wrinkling her nose, her gaze fixed on Daniel.

Daniel glanced at her, tugged at his vest, and then fully took in her suspicious expression. "What?"

Jack leaned toward him and sniffed. "Are you wearing…perfume?"

"It's _aftershave_," Daniel corrected. Although Jack was right—the combination of cologne and chemical grape made him stink like the cheap perfume aisle in a department store. Sweat ran down the side of his face and he swiped it away with the cuff of his jacket. "I was in a rush. I spilled a little."

"Well, you're gonna attract every freakin' bug, animal and alien life form for twenty miles," Jack grumbled, scrunching his face in disgust.

"It'll wear off in a few minutes," Daniel said. For effect, he fanned the neck of his T-shirt.

Jack turned to Sam. "Carter. When we get back—take Daniel shopping for some more… manly aftershave."

The seventh chevron engaged and they were given a go. As the team made their (its?) way up the ramp, Jack and Teal'c taking the lead, the subject was thankfully dropped. Daniel glanced at Sam who had moved up close beside him, and found she was still staring at him, scrutinizing him, even.

"What?" he said, defying her to question his story. Before she could even reply, Daniel caught up to Jack and Teal'c and stepped through the wormhole, silencing any queries or accusations Sam could pose. Silencing any questions he had no intention of ever answering.

---SG1---

The evening sky was ugly—gray, devoid of nuance or warmth. Heavy clouds pressed down on the city, their outer reaches curling like beckoning fingers. Ropes of cold air braided through the cool, tagging him with what was to come, what could be.

Still, it could be worse. He could be on Euronda, trying to keep a group of genocidal egomaniacs from exterminating a group of "pesky breeders." He could be in an underground world being told to shut up, to do what he was told, to not ask questions, to _ask_ questions, to figure out all the answers, oh, and could you do it yesterday?

A rumble of thunder rolled over the city and onto the balcony, low, ominous.

Rye rolled over the lip of his tumbler and onto his tongue, bitter and burning.

Another night, another end of a week. Or maybe it was the end of the day in the middle of the week—who knew? Did it matter?

History didn't seem like history when you were living through it, somebody once said. Daniel chortled. Seems his history was his present. "Maybe you'll think about that the next time you decide to behave like a stubborn little brat," Graham Davies had told him. "Shut up. Clear enough for you?" Jack had told him.

The drink still burned going down, and Daniel cleared his throat to ease some of the sting. Even so, this was better on every level than being in that bunker with a bunch of racist, extremist murderers. And with Jack. And with Sam, who was almost as bad as Jack.

And with Teal'c. And with Teal'c's questions—_"DanielJackson, there is a question I've desired to ask for many years."_

"_Uh, okay. What is it?"_

"_Why is it that the Tau'ri seem to so often celebrate victories and mourn with a gift of alcohol?"_

_Daniel stared at Teal'c, certain there was some underlying accusation within the question. "It's just, um, well, part of our tradition," he'd managed to answer. "Look, I could give you the historical context of communal wine and all, but what's this really all about?"_

"_Ambassador Alar offered all celebratory wine, and when I declined the offer, he was highly offended."_

"_Yeah, well," Daniel snarked, spinning a pen on top of the briefing room table, "I wouldn't take it personally. I'm not so sure that sharing wine and breaking bread with ol' Alar is in anyone's best interest."_

"_But you drank with him and his cabinet members."_

"_Yes, I suppose I did, and my only defense is that it was before I realized we were sitting in an extra-terrestrial version of Hitler's Eagle's Nest."_

_Teal'c had arched an eyebrow at the Earthly historical reference, but didn't comment on it. "Then how do you explain the drinks you imbibed after that realization was made clear to you?"_

_There it was, the barely veiled contempt, the lead-in to the objective._

"_Well, Teal'c," Daniel began, angered at the turn the conversation had taken, "I drank because it was offered and…" And because I was having the worst shakes… "…and because at that moment, with Jack on my back for doing my job, I needed a drink."_

"_And why do you do that, drink out of need?"_

"_Excuse me?"_

"_I have often heard you and many others say, 'I need a drink.' What is it about alcohol that brings such comfort and ease?"_

"_I'm not sure I want to have this conversation with you, Teal'c," Daniel said, feeling his face hot from anger and embarrassment. _

_Teal'c leveled Daniel with his gaze, and said, "I believe it is a conversation past its need."_

Oh, yeah, sitting on his balcony, joints loose, vision blurred, was considerably better than anything or anyone having to do with Euronda.

"_Why do you do that, drink out of need?"_

"To hell with Teal'c," Daniel stammered. "To hell with all of them." He tossed back another swallow, and closed his eyes to ease the pain. "Why I do it is my business." Daniel slunk down in his chair and cooled down his aching eyes with the butt of his tumbler.

_Why _do_ I do this?_ he wondered, watching the amber liquid slosh against the sides of his tumbler, leaving legs that slid down to meet the rest. _Why do I _do_ this?_

Daniel reached below his chair to grasp hold of the bottle—not quite as heavy as he thought it would be, which meant he had drunk more than he'd remembered. He drew the bottle up close to his eyes and tried to look though it with the aid of any light from the waning evening sky. About one third left. Should probably save it.

"For what?" he asked the breeze. His half-empty glass was precariously balanced on the off-kilter chair arm. Daniel lifted it, a dizzying movement, and began to top it off. He'd meant to fill the glass to that respectable level, about an inch below the lip, but what his mind said to do and what his hand was able to do were two different things. Bottle in one hand, tumbler in the other, he had a problem—put down the bottle and risk spilling his drink, or sip the drink and risk tipping the bottle.

He might be drunk, but he had his priorities.

Daniel wedged the bottle between his legs, leaned forward, and sipped the top off the drink. There was no way he was going to spill any of it. Just no way. Accident averted, Daniel grabbed the lightweight bottle, draped it over the side of his chair, and was relatively sure his reach extended to the ground. The ornately carved glass bottle hit the ground with a percussive thunk, and wobbled before righting itself. He glanced down to make sure it was still standing. Satisfied, he brought his glass to his mouth, took a swallow, and asked again, _Why do I do this?_

Daniel slunk down farther into his rattan deck chair. Such a stupid name for it, deck chair. Four floors above the ground did not make for a deck. It was a patio chair, a cheap, imitation rattan chair. Without allowing himself to consider the potential difficulties bringing Sha're to Earth would entail, he had bought a pair of the chairs when he moved into the apartment. He had a dream that one day he and Sha're would sit out on the patio in the warm spring evenings, the cool summer nights. He had saved his money with the same intentions, that when Sha're came to live with him, they'd buy a house, one that they would choose together. He had bought trinkets, little treasures he thought Sha're would enjoy, which would make her transition between worlds a little more pleasant. He had kept his apartment clean, uncluttered, in the thought that at any point they'd find Sha're, and he wouldn't want to bring her home to a messy apartment. He had slept on the left side of the bed, never on the right, because that's how they had slept on their bed in Abydos, and when Sha're…

God, so much time and energy wasted on "when." What an idiot he had been to believe, to dream about such bullshit.

Now the apartment was a mess, thousands of dollars were gone or missing, the trinkets had been thrown away, and the cheap, imitation rattan chairs were pocked with cigarette burns.

He still slept on the left side of the bed. That is when he made it to his bed before passing out. When was the last time he'd slept in his bed?

"And what time is it?" He illuminated the face of his watch. 2309. Daniel dropped his head back and did the math—he needed five hours after his last drink to sober up enough to go to work. Worst case scenario, he needed five hours between his last drink and the time he had to show up in the gateroom. So, okay, 2309… Gateroom by…

He'd get there. And wasn't that a testament to how well he was handling his drinking? He wasn't late to work, he got all his paperwork done on time, and as far as he was concerned, it was all good.

Okay, he had to be back on base by…Shit, what time was it?

An unexpected breeze blew back his hair, and he felt as if he'd been drifting.

Daniel ran a hand through his hair and over his scruffy beard. When was the last time he'd shaved? Two days, three days ago? Did it matter? Put it all behind—his day, his week, his job, his future. What a conundrum, placing a future in the past.

"Now that's something to consider," he said. In order to better explore the possibilities, he swallowed a mouthful of the bitter liquor and cleared his throat. Just like that, the problem was solved. Another sip, and the entire thought was lost.

Did he bring out his cigarettes? Now was the time of night that he liked to have a cigarette or two. It seemed to make the feeling last, or made it even more mellow, smooth, languid. That harsh smoke, mingled with bitter liquid, created a mélange that turned his aching, jutting bones to mush and his aching, jutting thoughts to silence. He patted down his shirt, his pants. He dug in crease of the chair and found a crumpled piece of cardboard. He pulled it free from the fraying rattan. A crushed pack of Camels; he fumbled it open. Only there was nothing inside but empty, damp foil and a muted, but still tantalizing whiff of tobacco. Cursing, he tossed the empty wrapper to the balcony floor in frustration and disgust.

"Dammit." He slumped back in his chair, thumping the back of his head on the chair frame. "I just wanted _one_ fucking cigarette." He rasped his hand over his face, picked up his glass and took a sip. His drink splashed against his lips and burned the inside of his mouth. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the rye, on the welcome burn as it slid down his throat, and somewhere in that communion of spirits, he relaxed. He even forgot about the need for a smoke.

_So, what was the reason?_ he asked himself again, the question swirling and tumbling around in his mind – an endless spiral of doubt and need for justification. Why _did _he spend all his evenings at home with a bottle, or at a bar with a glass, or off-world hoping the inhabitants would offer him some of their local distilled goods, even if they were war criminals? Because the plan of sipping coffee out on the balcony with his wife was gone, and it had been replaced with the only other thing he could rely on. That he could always rely on. Because anytime he felt the need to forget, he could always buy another bottle. There was nothing in life so remarkably comforting and reassuring as that.

Cool evening air gave over to cold, damp blasts out of the northwest. Ashen skies deepened into coal-black nothingness. Timid mist crept over the balcony railing, followed shortly thereafter by insistent pelting rain.

Daniel covered his drink so that the rainwater wouldn't dilute its strength.

Some things had to remain consistent.

* * *

tbc


	10. Reparations pt 2

Reparations part 2

* * *

Mission after mission after mission, two more down, and the two following it turned out to be rather uneventful. Jack thought he should be grateful for the regularity, the utter routine logistics. Unfortunately, Jack had never been one to relish the routine. In fact, it bored the hell out of him, and maybe that boredom was what caused him to get on Daniel's case, as had been the norm of late. Maybe it was that he hadn't had to discharge his weapon in weeks, at least not at anything productive. A log or two.

Maybe it wasn't the mission schedule at all. Maybe, it was… Daniel. The Daniel who questioned him at every turn, even more than usual, who was petulant and short, who…Well, the truth was—and maybe it was years of military standards—Jack was fairly irked at Daniel's sudden lack of personal hygiene. Every other day he would show up unshaved, or looking like he had shaved in transit, and not to mention, he always smelled like he was trying to drown himself in aftershave or antiseptic mouthwash. Like he was trying to hide something.

Not to mention Daniel's near-total ambivalence toward their team and his recent space-cadet behavior on missions.

So, yes, Jack had a reason for the litany of lectures. Lectures on why it _so_ wasn't a good idea for Daniel to be continually late for embarkations. Or the fact that if he didn't get his head out of the clouds, sooner rather than later, he was going to find himself working at a permanent desk job for the sake of his own personal safety. Acting spacey on missions equaled a target on the back of one's jacket, Jack had told him, more than once, in both explanation and threat. And even though he knew he was starting to sound like his old nightmare of a drill sergeant, Jack couldn't help subjecting Daniel to entire locker room briefings on why his recent excessive _pissiness_ wasn't good for team morale _or_ for Jack's mental health.

As for Daniel, he was pretty sure the blame lay in Jack's hands.

Daniel hadn't thought he was behaving in a spacey manner or acting particularly pissy. Well, maybe a _little_ pissy, but that was only in reaction to Jack, as usual, and of course, Jack hadn't a clue as to how annoying he could truly be.

Even Sam was in on making Daniel's life difficult. Asking loaded questions, weighing his guarded answers a little too closely, suspicion clouding her eyes. And Teal'c—well, Teal'c had always been able to express so much disapproval with a mere glance.

To be honest, Daniel was getting sick of it, of all of them.

Lately, he was finding the base itself to be cloying and restrictive. He always had to be on guard, always on his best behavior there, never knowing who would barge unannounced into his office. It was always a relief to be able to go home, and get away from that place, away from all of them. Escaping to his apartment was like finally being able to breathe again. A respite from criticism, from questions and concerned glances when his team thought he wasn't looking.

Whenever he could, he began to do much of his paperwork from home, on his laptop, a bottle of Scotch and a tumbler beside him on the dining room table. Having the glass within easy reach helped him concentrate and stay focused. Sometimes, he'd down half a bottle without realizing he was doing so until he'd happened to glance at the line of liquid remaining.

The fact that he still felt relatively sober after consuming such amounts should have alarmed him, but it didn't. Instead, everything—his thoughts, his emotions, his surroundings—muted to a quiet hum, a pleasant sense of calm. It was the state of mind he always strove to attain, and the alcohol was merely a tool to help him reach it. He also couldn't withhold a measure of pride that his translations were always perfectly accurate no matter how much he'd indulged while working on them.

He was managing just fine. He had it all down to a routine. A science, even.

That is, if you didn't count the many mornings he overslept and had to drive in to work still legally inebriated and breaking every traffic law in the state. Or if you didn't count the fact that when he wasn't drinking, he was always on edge, always wondering when and where he could sneak the next one in.

No, none of those things mattered, because he didn't allow himself to think of them. If those thoughts and escalating fear did sneak in unbidden, well then, all he had to do was drown them into silence.

Unfortunately, the night before, he had drowned those thoughts a little too successfully, and had woken with a screaming headache, a churning stomach and a matching temper.

Arriving late to work for the third time that week, he tried to slink through the myriad levels and hallways without having to speak to any of his teammates. Security had been a breeze; circumventing the science wing had been time consuming; ducking into another man's office to prevent a confrontation with Janet had ratcheted his headache up a few notches. However, with his office in sight, Daniel felt his shoulders relaxing, and the knot that was his forehead began to loosen.

Until the Jack's hulking figure filled the hallway. Daniel tensed as he tried to edge past the total embodiment of his misery. Jack shifted left; Daniel shifted right. Jack shifted right; Daniel shifted left. It was an impasse, which seemed wholly appropriate in his mind.

"Jack," Daniel all but growled, "I'm not in the mood for this, right now."

"Yeah, I can see that," Jack said, eyeing him up and down. Taking in the dark circles under Daniel's eyes, his tousled hair and missed spots of stubble from his hasty morning shave, Jack arched an eyebrow and said, "So, you still go by Dr. Jackson, right? It's been such a long time since you've shown your face around here, I've kind of lost track of your many distinguished titles."

"I see you're still working on that comedy routine, huh, Jack?" Daniel snarked, shouldering past the other man.

"No time," Jack said, undeterred and hot on Daniel's heels. "I just can't seem to find the time between wondering where you are and wondering where you've been."

"I'm touched that you care so much," Daniel said, ripping his key card from his jacket, finding his shaking hands were not going to cooperate. Rather than let Jack see the trembling, Daniel spun to face and confront him. "Is there a point to all this? Because if there is, just tell me. Otherwise, I have a lot of work to do."

"Oh, well, sorry to inconvenience you with little matters of… _your job, _but Carter has been looking for you."

Daniel shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "I've been here. She must have just missed me."

"No, see, Carter doesn't _miss_ things," Jack reminded him. "Carter is thorough, meticulous, even. You, on the other hand, are not. At least not in the last couple months."

"Gee, Jack, had I known I was up for my annual review, I would have brought coffee," Daniel sneered, having had enough of this inquisition already. "But I believe—and correct me if I'm wrong—that I'm not due for my review until next quarter. Which means this impromptu review is neither needed nor pragmatic."

"So, where _have_ you been, Daniel?" Jack asked, tiring of the games.

"Here and there." Daniel wrapped his arms across his midsection.

"And where exactly might 'there' be?"

"Again, is there a point to this?"

"Yeah, there is. The point is this: you've always been flaky, and I could deal with that, but lately you're giving the word a whole new definition."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Daniel said, a surge of anger flaring and bringing color to his pallid cheeks.

"It means I'm getting sick of your attitude lately. You don't seem to give a shit about what's going on around here anymore."

"Maybe I've just figured out that there's more to life than this base," Daniel countered.

Jack shook his head. "Nah, I'm not buying it."

"You know, Jack—"

"So what is it you've been doing that has you coming in here looking like you've been sleeping in your car for the past few weeks?" Jack asked, point blank.

"Th-this is…is…" Daniel sputtered, his aggravation, coupled with the blinding headache rendering him incapable of coherent speech.

"You… _aren't_ sleeping in your car, are you? I mean… you _have_ been known to fall asleep in odd places…"

"Are we done?" Daniel demanded, crooking his thumb over his shoulder, toward his door.

Jack stared at him a moment in blatant disapproval, then clucked his tongue against his cheek. "All right, fine," he said. "I'll lay it on the line for you here. Consider yourself on notice that you need to step it up a notch. I don't have time for this…this…whatever it is going on with you."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Finished?"

"I'm not kidding around here, Daniel."

"I'm not laughing."

It wasn't done, and Jack knew it. He'd seen that deadeye stare from Daniel before, the one that said he'd heard, but had no intention of listening. There was something different about this one, though. It was darker, colder, but something else. Something lost, something desperate.

"Just get it together, Daniel," Jack said, breaking the tense, angry silence. And then, before he caught himself saying things he'd likely regret, he turned his back and stormed away.

Daniel rolled his shoulders, his neck, and wiped the sweat off his hands. He turned and somehow managed to unlock his door.

---SG1---

The negotiations had gone very well. The Purchazi people, a well-organized, amiable civilization on P34-581, were happy to be receiving engineering help. Jack was happy they didn't believe in violence. General Hammond was happy Sam would be coming home with new ways to enrich naquaada. Teal'c was happy that the Purchazi were wise to the ways of the Goa'uld. They were all happy and ready to go their merry ways. None more than Daniel, who was working on almost 48 hours dry.

But first, a celebration.

The honored guests, SG1, were seated around an ornate table. The surface was covered with bowls of grains, platters of succulent meat, freshly picked fruit, and roasted vegetables. After a perfunctory note of appreciation, Jack forked a piece of the meat, sniffed it for good measure, and forced a smile for his hosts. Knowing he was about to venture into that world where his gastrointestinal system might soon have to take up the "soldiering on through thick and thin," Jack placed the food in his mouth. He chewed it. He quirked a face.

"Carter," he said, leaning over, cutting another piece.

"Yes, sir."

"This meat."

"What about it, sir?"

"It tastes like…"

"Chicken?"

"No," he said, eyeing her curiously, "it tastes like meat. Cow meat. Beef." He paused and curiosity gave way to suspicion. "Really? You taste chicken?"

"Never mind, sir." Sam smiled, and when a plate was set before her, she graciously accepted it, mystery meat and all.

Teal'c was the one who most pleased their hosts, pounding his way through serving after serving of the meal. The Purchazi smiled to each other, nodded, motioned at their guests, making sure the cooks saw how well their dishes were being appreciated.

All were feeling congenial. All but Daniel, whose stomach was cramped and whose limbs twitched with near electrical impulses. He was thankful for the cloth placed in front of him. He wadded it up in his sweating hands. The plate of food before him smelled heavy and cloying, exactly the kind of thing his stomach could not handle. He pushed pieces of food from one side of the wooden plate to the other, manufacturing tepid smiles for their hosts all the same.

"Daniel," Sam said, first lowering, then turning her head so only he would hear, "is everything okay?"

Daniel wiped the cloth over his mouth, tried to pull in one scentless breath through it.

Sam put down her fork and touched Daniel's back. "Hey, are you okay?"

Daniel glanced at her irritably. "I'm fine. Why are you always assuming—"

"Look, I just asked how you are," she said, taken aback by his tone. "I won't let it happen again."

"No, Sam – I… I'm sorry," he said, taking a deep breath. Even though he knew Sam had nothing to do with the way he felt, her constant mother-hen attitude toward him had grown annoying long ago. Still, she didn't deserve being talked to that way. Not completely. "I just…I think I may be coming down with something."

Sam weighed his explanation with what she thought might truly be going on, and decided just to stay on his good side. For now. "Do you need to go back to—"

"Wine?" asked a Purchazi woman who had come up behind Daniel, startling them both.

"Please. Yes," Daniel answered, and even he thought the acceptance sounded a little too desperate, and so with a smile, he added, "but not too much."

The Purchazi woman filled his glass halfway, offered him a smile in return, and moved on. Daniel lifted the cup to his nose and took a deep sniff. His mind said, "Happy day." His expression said, "What is this?" He hoped Sam would read his expression and not his mind. He took one careful, dramatic sip, and pulled a face. All for show, of course. The stuff _was_ strong, much more potent than any regular wine on Earth, but he knew one glass would barely even take the edge off his frayed nerve endings. He drew in another whiff, and the alcohol painted over the back of his throat, seeped into his soft palate. He closed his eyes in relief. When he opened them, he noticed Jack and Sam staring at him. Daniel lowered his focus and reluctantly put the cup down.

"Have you tried it?" he asked Jack, wanting, no, _needing_ to take another gulp more than ever, but he held off, sliding the cup back and forth on the table. "It's… umm… different."

"Not bad," Jack said, the cold impassivity in his voice barely masking the disdain. "That is, if you like Mad Dog 20/20."

"Nope, can't say that I do," Daniel replied, pushing the cup away from his plate. _Great,_ he thought. Now there were two sets of eyes locked on him. "I'm going to use the facilities, such as they are."

"Yup," Jack said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes full of suspicion.

Daniel lost himself in the crowd of people inside the squat room. Once he thought he had enough bodies between him and the table, he grabbed the first person passing with a pitcher.

"'Scuse me," he said, smiling amiably. "Is that wine?"

The young woman smiled back and told him it was.

"Look, I need to leave the party for a bit. Can I…?" he said, motioning for the pitcher. She looked confused, glancing between him and her pitcher of wine. Daniel took a peek into the pitcher and found it half full, about a quart or so. Just the amount he thought he might need. "Um," he said, stalling for time, "in my culture, it's considered a sign of respect to…to take the wine from the host and refill it. It, uh, it's what we do to show respect."

"Oh," she said, no more clearer on the subject, but even still, she handed the pitcher to Daniel. "The casks are in the house across the lane. Here, I can…"

"No. No, I can find it," he said, afraid she would follow him across the lane, into the house, back to the party, and attend to him the rest of the night. "Thank you. I'll be fine." He took hold of the pitcher and backed out of the party.

Once outside, Daniel diverted his way and skulked out of sight behind the building. More importantly, out of the sight of his team. They were constantly looking, constantly watching, accusing, asking, judging, and this wasn't any of their concern. This was something he'd always done alone, something of his own.

He found an unlit sidewall, plastered his back against it, and lifted the pitcher. His mouth met the earthenware vessel midpoint and he let pour a sluice of good fortune. The unsophisticated brew burned his tongue, and the high percentage of alcohol evaporated quickly against the inside of his cheeks. A shiver rippled involuntarily over his skin.

But the wine spread with a delicious heat over his shoulders and through his arms. It went down his esophagus like velvet on fire. He loved this feeling, this first sip, when there was instant relief. When the terrible pressure in his gut was replaced with warm comfort. He let his weary lids shut in order to relish the moment.

And then he drank. Until he was loose. Until he felt he could go back in there.

Until he remembered where he was. He nearly dropped the pitcher when he realized that it was almost empty, not even half a glass left, by his estimation. He hadn't meant to drink that much – only enough to feel normal again, and this was… this was… _god, this was bad…_

He hadn't meant to do this. Not on a mission… Never on a mission.

"Dammit!" he cursed under his breath, a shiver of fear sneaking through the haze, his heart pounding. He dumped the remaining wine on the ground, figuring he could always say that he'd spilled if anyone asked and hurried back into the street, in search of the house that contained the casks. He knocked quietly on one door, but heard nothing. When he started out for the next building down the darkened lane, he became aware of a presence.

"Hello?" he called out, brandishing the pitcher.

"Decided to become part of the wait staff?"

"Jack?"

From out of the shadows, the colonel appeared. "Had a little private wine tasting party, did ya?"

"What?" Daniel asked, flipping through his memory of just how dark it was, and if he had seen anyone behind him. How the hell could Jack know? He couldn't. Plausible deniability. "This? No, it's empty," Daniel said, tipping over the pitcher. "I was just helping out the woman who… I told her I'd fill it for her while I was out. And I was just looking for—"

"Uh-huh."

"She said the casks were somewhere in one of these buildings," Daniel said, turning his attention toward the farthest house from Jack.

"Carter said you weren't feeling too well."

"Carter should get a life," he muttered.

"What's that?"

"Nothing." Daniel continued his walk through the night-shaded lane, not wanting Jack to get too close. "I guess I just… needed some fresh air."

"Uh-huh."

The tone in Jack's voice was beginning to grate on Daniel's nerves, so he stopped where he was and said, "Jack, is there something on your mind?"

"Yup," he said.

"Well, go ahead. Anytime now."

"You know, when we're off world, on a mission, I expect certain behaviors from my team. The one I might consider waaaaaay up there is not being drunk," Jack said.

"I'm _not_ drunk."

"Yeah, but you will be."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Jack took one darting step toward Daniel. His voice reverberated with anger. "Daniel, I _saw_ you leave with a nearly full pitcher. You told me this was over."

"I – I don't even know what—" he stammered helplessly a moment, then remembered. "I uh… I spilled it," he added, pointing behind him. "Stumbled on something and—"

"You told me this was a phase."

"It is," Daniel stated before he could work out the appropriate verb tense, which wasn't lost on Jack whose features became even more clouded with anger. "I mean it _was."_

"Right." Jack's black eyes tacked Daniel in his place.

"Jack, I haven't…" he began, trying to be much more careful and precise with his words. The wine, however, was making its way through his brain. "I haven't had a drink, besides a little wine tonight, in…I don't know, four, five days."

"Congratulations," Jack said. "Tell me when it's been a year."

"What are you trying to say, Jack?"

"It's this." Jack inched forward, breaching the safe distance that Daniel relied on. "You're finished for the night. I don't want you in that hall. I don't want you with the rest of us. I don't want you talking to anyone. What I want is for you to get to camp and stay there. You're no good to me."

"Don't you think that's a little dramatic, Jack?" Daniel said, ensuring to speak slowly and carefully, so that he wouldn't accidentally slur.

"Sir?" said Sam, joining the two men in the darkened street. Even in the limited light, Sam easily understood the tension between Jack and Daniel.

"Tell him, Sam," Daniel said, shooting her a quick, pleading look.

"Tell him what?" she asked.

"That I'm…" Daniel began, tripping over his thoughts. "Jack thinks I've been drinking and... and I haven't. At least no more than you guys have... Tell him…"

"Um, sir, I gave Daniel an antihistamine just over an hour ago," Sam said, realizing that Daniel needed a modicum of protection at that moment.

"Yes, see?" Daniel spat out.

"I think it mixed with the little wine he had at dinner," Sam added with an apologetic shrug.

"A _little_ wine," Jack said, trapping Daniel in his stare.

"Yes, sir. I'll get him some water, and I'm sure he'll feel better," Sam said.

"Right," Jack said, nodding, pursing his mouth with skepticism. "Do that."

"So, see?" Daniel said, crossing his arms indignantly. "I think you owe me an apology."

Jack stared at Daniel, his face hardened by anger and disbelief. "Carter, take Daniel back to camp now. Make sure he gets that water."

"Yes, sir," said Sam, keeping her eye on Daniel, who seemed to be wavering a little.

"Jesus, Jack," Daniel laughed, the alcohol rushing through his body. "Lighten up, will ya?"

Jack pointed a warning finger at him. "Go to bed, Daniel."

"Daniel, let's go," Sam said, reaching for his arm.

"Not before Jack—"

Before he could even finish, Jack suddenly had one hand twisted around Daniel's collar, the other pointing in his face.

"Sir!" Sam yelped. With a glare from Jack, she backed up.

"Listen up, Daniel!" Jack snarled, his nose mere inches from Daniel's. "Tomorrow, we go home. The second we get back, I mean the goddamned _second_ we hit the ramp, you and I are gonna have us a talk, and maybe, just maybe, I won't report this incident to General Hammond."

"There isn't any _incident_ to report, other than you acting like a paranoid, uptight ass," Daniel countered as he met the other man's angry glare full on.

Sam gaped at her friend in astonishment.

"Daniel," Jack growled as he gave the younger man a rough shake. "Not another word."

And by the growing anger in Jack's eyes, Daniel knew he'd better not push him any further. He looked at Sam. "I... I guess I'm gonna go to bed now," he said, and hoping his voice sounded more spiteful than his spirit.

"I guess you are," Jack said in a deceptively soft voice.

Daniel looked down into the empty pitcher. With the sort of bravado that only the very stupid or the very inebriated display, he handed the pitcher to Jack, smirked, and said, "You might want to fill this up and bring it back to the party. Show of respect."

"Major…" Jack snarled. "If you don't—"

"Right. We'll just head back to camp now." Sam wedged herself between the colonel and her friend, pulling him away.

Daniel shrugged her off. "I don't think I need any help tucking myself in, but thanks anyway."

"Get out of here, Daniel," Jack ground out through a clenched jaw. "Now!"

"Yes, sir, Colonel, sir," Daniel slurred back, unable to stop himself. He tried for a salute, but it ended up as more of a sloppy wave instead.

"Let's go," Sam said. She took him by the elbow and nearly dragged him away from his own reckless stupidity. Once they were far enough from the village, Sam found she had some questions of her own. "Daniel, tell me this is because of the antihistamine I gave you."

Daniel stared at her a moment. Antihistamine? He had no idea what she was talking about and had no recollection of having taken one, but still, he shrugged and schooled his features into his most earnest expression. "Yes, Sam. It's… the drugs. Absolutely."

"Because if it isn't, I just lied to my superior officer," she reminded him. "You understand how much trouble I could get in for doing that, right?"

"Look, Sam," Daniel said, stopping in his tracks. "I don't need you to cover for me. First off, there's nothing to cover _for_, and more importantly, even if there were something to cover, I wouldn't need you to do it."

Sam looked him over and wondered how things had escalated to this point. "Fine, you don't need me. But you need something."

"Yeah, like a better drink," Daniel laughed. "My first batch of moonshine was better than that—"

"You think this is funny? You think this is a joke?" she interrupted.

"Sam, what's funny is that you all think there's something wrong with me," he said, anger suddenly filling him. "What I think is you should just back the hell off and leave me alone, 'cause I'm fine."

"Fine," she said, hurt by his rejection.

And in a moment of clarity, Daniel realized Sam was his only ally at the moment. He tore his hands through his hair and let out a frustrated sigh. "Sam, look. I'm just tired. That's all. That's all this is. It's been a rotten couple weeks, a rotten… terrible year. I just… I'm tired and like Jack said, I should go to bed." He took a few steps away from her and stumbled over a twig that caught on his boot.

"You really _are_ drunk, aren't you?" Sam stared at him, the truth slowly and reluctantly taking hold.

"No! "Dammit, Sam!" he shouted, throwing up his hands in frustration. "What part of 'I'm tired' don't you get?"

Sam bit back her shock at his uncharacteristic anger, and then her own temper rose to the surface. How many more times would he expect her to believe that excuse? How many more times would she have to listen to it? She didn't _want_ to listen to it anymore. She couldn't even begin to decide what she wanted to say to him, what she even _should_ say to him at this point. What could she possibly say that would make any difference right now?

Sam shook her head, turned toward camp, listening to make sure he was following behind, which he did after a few moments.

By the time they reached camp, Daniel was barely able to keep his eyes open. She helped him remove his boots and his jacket, and then helped him into his sleeping bag. After he had fallen asleep, she thought she might go through his pack and see if there was anything in there that she should know about. She'd had her suspicions in the last few weeks that he was bringing more than the standard issue on each mission, but she was, in truth, afraid to ask, afraid of the answer. She began to open his pack, but stopped. What was left but the trust she had in Daniel? If she went into his pack, she would in effect destroy the only thing left in their relationship.

And she really needed to hold on to that. Since Sha're's death, Daniel was distant at best, angry most of the time, and seeming to self-destruct in front of her. What could she do? She had tried to reach out to him, tried to offer her hand, a shoulder to cry on, a sofa to sleep on. But he had accepted nothing, and had only stepped further and further away from them all. If she gave up on the trust they had built over the years, she would lose the only thing left of their friendship, and she couldn't do that. She needed him too much.

So she left him sleeping it off, whatever _it_ was. And she hoped that when he woke, they could begin again.

Even still, she found she was beginning to lose hope in that dream, as well.

---SG1---

The sun slanted through the curtains, beams of light falling across Daniel's face, stirring him to reluctant wakefulness. He pressed his nose into the pillow, needing to sleep more but the pounding in his temples was far too strong to allow unconsciousness to reclaim him.

Lifting his head and squinting against the light streaming into his burning eyes, Daniel realized with a start that the angle of the sun was all wrong. It should have been coming from the opposite side of the room. The blanket loosely clasped in his fist and tangled around his legs was wrong too. Coarse, cheap, pilling brown wool instead of his navy, down-filled duvet.

Bolting upright, he gasped and pressed a hand to his forehead when a wave of nausea and a bolt of pain crashed through his skull. Blinking against the pounding in his temples, he tried to take stock of his surroundings. Wood paneling and faded amateurish prints of indistinct landscapes adorned the walls, a small desk stood beside the bed. The floor was carpeted in a yellowish-brown shag. The room stank of stale cigarette smoke, old vomit and alcohol.

He was in a motel room. A very cheap one at that.

In an instant, panic overtook everything else. Hurling himself from the bed, Daniel stumbled to the dusty, dirt smeared window, peered out to see his own car parked directly outside. Beyond that lay an unfamiliar expanse of highway and a truck stop type diner across the parking lot.

Daniel's heart began to race with a strange sensation of sickening terror. He had no recollection whatsoever of how he had come to be in this place. Without realizing it, he began to pace, chewing on his ragged thumbnail and frantically attempting to summon any memory of the previous night, but there was nothing. Just a terrifying black chasm of lost time.

_No, wait._ Something rose to the surface of his scrambled memory. He recalled going to the corner store at around 18:00 to pick up some cigarettes—somehow and somewhere over the past six months, he'd picked up the habit—and after that… nothing.

Daniel had heard of blackouts, but he'd never experienced one before. At least not one of this magnitude, nothing ever this complete. He'd always tried to maintain his control, no matter what. He'd always tried to confine the worst of his drinking to the safety of his home, so how the hell had he come to be here? What in god's name had he been doing?

"Oh god oh god _oh god…_" he chanted under his breath, still pacing. His rumpled reflection in the desk mirror caught his attention, but he tried not to look too closely at it. Then he noticed the stationery placed on the desk. He snatched up a business card that read, "Welcome to the Lumbermill Motel, Elicit, Colorado."

Stunned, Daniel let the card flutter from his fingers. Somehow, he had driven 45 miles, and somehow he had ended up in this place—a motel the likes of which he hadn't seen since his starving student days.

He met his own wide-eyed, bloodshot gaze in the mirror. He was still wearing the same faded blue shirt he recalled putting on the previous morning. His fingers stole to his collar where it was smeared with something beige and pink. Makeup, he surmised after a puzzled moment. Amidst the stale alcohol and sweat, he caught a sudden whiff of perfume.

Another surge of panic consumed him, and he all but lunged toward the small bathroom. Pushing the unlocked door open, he stepped inside and glanced around until he was certain there were no signs of female occupancy.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Daniel this time noticed a raw looking graze on his chin nearly hidden amidst the stubble. Then a faint sting in his palms became apparent, and he turned them over to reveal scraped, roughened skin. He must have fallen at some point in that forgotten night.

"Fucking hell…" he muttered under his breath and tore a shaky hand through his tangled, sweat dampened hair.

_God, this is getting bad. This is getting completely fucking out of hand… You have to stop this, _he told himself._ You have to stop this right now… _

But first, he had to get himself cleaned up and then get the hell out this place. Unbuttoning his shirt with a wildly trembling hand, and almost frantically shoving off the rest of his clothing, he stepped into the shower. He adjusted the pelting water to as hot as he could stand in a desperate attempt to scourge himself of whatever he had done the night before.

Somehow, he managed to get himself dressed and checked out of the motel. He was still too queasy and too shaky to drive, so he forced himself to walk over to the nearly empty diner. There, he gulped down a half dozen cups of coffee and consumed a breakfast of rubbery, greasy scrambled eggs and leathery bacon. He tried to use the time to calm down, but the massive amounts of caffeine merely set his heart racing again, and his thoughts only followed suit.

As he choked down a piece of burned, butter-sodden toast, he said a silent prayer of thanks that he didn't have to be on base that day. There would have been no possible way to explain this. Absolutely no way. It had only been a little over two weeks since that disastrous mission with the Purchazi, and though Jack had never gotten around to their threatened talk, Daniel knew he was still on thin ice with not only the colonel, but his entire team. Daniel had tried to make amends by staying on his best behavior – showing up for work on time, completing all his reports and translations well ahead of schedule, making an effort to stop and chat with Sam in her office like he used to do. Hell, he'd even had only a couple of drinks during the entire past few weeks.

Until last night that is… until he'd evidently had enough to drink to make up for those two weeks and more. Again, he tried to summon any memory of what had triggered the binge, but there was nothing. The utter void in his memory terrified him.

He had to get this back under control before his elaborately constructed ruse was shattered, before they all found out.

He had to be more careful from now on.

* * *

tbc 


	11. Reparations pt 3

So very terribly sorry for the long delay in posting - too much RL stuff going on to mention - but the rest of this _will_ be posted come hell or high water before the end of the month. Rah! A _big, _grateful thank you to those of you who have been so patiently waiting for the resolution of this story, and we do very much hope that it was worth the wait.

Disclaimer - Stargate SG-1 and it's characters don't belong to us, etc.

* * *

Reparations part 3

* * *

Sleep deprived, underfed, over-caffeinated, over-worked, and in need of anything else except matters dealing with those three letters "SGC," Jack and a group of co-workers sat around a blue-draped table, picking at assorted food items in the cafeteria. Now and again, when the conversation lagged, Jack would put his head down on the table. When it picked up, so too did Jack's interest, like when they were talking about Ben and Jerry's ice cream.

Daniel stayed long enough to down a cup of coffee and run his hand through his hair repeatedly, having not much more to add to the conversation except monosyllabic utterances. When he left, there was a quiet moment when three of the four remaining concentrated on forking jello cubes, peeling pie crust off pie filling, and continuously stirring black coffee. After an appreciable time, the banal discussion continued on. Janet and Sam mentioned something about going out and spending ridiculous money on manicures and pedicures that would go unnoticed and unappreciated, and Teal'c thought he might like to join them. A kibosh was quickly placed on that plan, and so the conversation continued.

They listed the things they were tired of: MREs, potable water, heavy packs, ineffective insoles, positron annihilation, the last of which when offered to the group was summarily thrown out for being too esoteric. Sam took it personally. A few at the table, Jack, Sam and Janet, would have liked to have shared that they were getting pretty tired of Daniel, but they didn't want to open up the discussion in case the others weren't aware of his erratic behavior.

So when Teal'c checked and the report for the weekend looked promising, in fact, downright gorgeous for late fall, talks began about what they would do to celebrate or put to rest (depending on who you asked) the week's end. Jack had mentioned something about immersing himself in the genius that is Homer Simpson, and that's when it was decided they'd instead get together at someone's house to enjoy what may be left of the good weather. Jack's house was quickly left out of the running. Jack took it personally.

Therefore, when Janet offered up her backyard for a Saturday afternoon barbecue—"Just the few of us, maybe the general, Siler, and plenty of tequila"—Sam hardly let her finish before she volunteered to bring dessert. Jack said he'd bring a ball peen hammer to smack against his own temple if Siler were invited. With a plan in place, each set out to put the final touches on one long week.

What a week.

Endless meetings, one diagnostic after another, training new recruits, one pissy colonel—and then there was Daniel. More and more he was short, terse, caustic, and that was when he could be found. Sam thought for sure one morning she had smelled stale alcohol on him—not just his breath, but emanating from him. He seemed constantly tired and constantly on edge.

Somehow the irony of needing a drink to forget her week with Daniel lost its humor.

The weather reported bore out, and at 2pm that Saturday afternoon, Sam pulled into Janet's driveway, right next to Daniel's car. Good sign, she thought. Daniel not only made it to the gathering, but he was early. Maybe her worries were for naught. Maybe he'd just been having a bad week like the rest of them.

Janet met Sam at the door. "Come on in."

"Thanks," Sam said, the weight of her job off her shoulders, replaced by the weight of four half-gallons of ice cream in her hands. "I didn't know what people were going to want, so…It's kind of mind boggling how many different flavors you can buy."

Sam paused when Janet didn't gregariously welcome her in, which was the norm.

"What's going on, Janet?" Sam asked, looking past her, into the house.

"You're not going to believe this," Janet said, she said, opening the door completely, taking one of the bags.

"Thanks," Sam said, following Janet into the kitchen, all the while scoping out each room they passed. When they reached the kitchen, Janet placed each cartoon of ice cream in the freezer before turning to Sam, hands pressed to her hips.

"Daniel's here," Janet said.

Sam scowled, taken aback. "He was invited, wasn't he?"

"Of course he was, but I didn't expect him to show up drunk." Janet led Sam to the patio door and pointed out where Daniel was sprawled, one leg and one arm off the hammock, swaying back and forth in a listless rhythm. Cassie sat in a lawn chair next to him, giggling.

Sam closed her eyes, shook her head and snickered. This was getting ridiculous. "How bad is he?"

"I wouldn't get close to him with a flame," Janet chimed in, monitoring the scene. While they looked on, Cassie jumped from her seat. Daniel grabbed her arm, and Cassie nodded, laughing. She jogged up and onto the patio and slid open the door.

"Hi, Sam," she said, sailing by.

"Cass."

Cassie yanked open the refrigerator, bent over to inspect the contents, and said, "Hey, Mom, do we have any beer?"

"Excuse me?" Janet said, marching to the refrigerator.

Cass stood up, rolled her eyes, and slouched, "Like, it's not for me, if that's what you're thinking."

"Like," Janet began, mocking her daughter, "then why ask?"

Cassie rolled her eyes, flipped back her long hair, shifted all her weight onto her right foot, and said, "It's for Daniel. Duh!"

Janet shut the refrigerator door and stared down her daughter. "Well, Daniel can get his own beer if he needs it."

Cassie shifted her weight again, her head beginning to do that swiveling from one side to the other thing Janet hated so much. "He, like, asked me to get it for him, Mom!"

"I don't care what he, like, asked, Cassandra!"

"Uh, Janet," Sam interjected, "I'm going to go talk to…"

"Fine," Janet answered, never taking her eyes off her petulant daughter.

Sam loped across the lawn, hoping Daniel wouldn't be as drunk as she figured he might. When she reached him, she found him to be unshaven, lacking his glasses, and snoring softly.

"Daniel," she said, eliciting no response. Sam jostled his arm, and when he cracked open his eyes and saw who it was, he drew both arms across his chest and went back to sleep.

"Daniel!" she yelled, shaking the hammock.

"I'm tryin' ta slee', Sam," he muttered.

"You're drunk."

"Am not."

Sam yanked the hammock again, almost sending him sprawling to the ground.

"What ta hell's yer poblem?" he yelped, grasping hold of the sides with both hands.

Sam shook her head in disgust. "My god," she muttered. "You're all vowels, you're so drunk."

Daniel grabbed both sides of the hammock and raised his head, trying to focus enough to see who else was in the backyard. "Did Cassie come back out?"

"You sent her in for a beer, Daniel?"

Daniel dropped back down on the hammock, and tried rolling his eyes at Sam, a motion that came across more plastered than peevish. "I jus' tol' her I was…thirsy. Ty. Thirsty."

Sam glared at him. She grabbed hold of the hammock, jerked it up, and let him tumble out. He hit the ground with a heavy thunk, face first.

"Gawdammi…" he mumbled into the grass.

Sam grabbed hold of the hammock and spun it out of the way. She knelt next to his side and rolled him over. "Daniel!" she growled, tapping his face. Daniel swatted at her hand and then his arm melted back down to the grass. Janet lived in an affluent, lovely neighborhood, and Sam was quite sure the sight of an unconscious drunk in her backyard would set the gossip mill spinning. So she stood astride him, gathered up both of his hands and forced him to sit up.

"Daniel, come on!" she yelled, wrapping her arms through his, which amounted to the equivalent of picking up a loose bag of sand. Janet slid open the door and strode across her back lawn to help Sam.

"We'll put him in the guest room," she said, taking one of Daniel's arms. Together, the women coaxed him to his feet, his arms anchored over their shoulders, and with his feet barely shuffling along, they dragged him into the house. Cassie stepped back, at once fascinated and scared at the sight of him.

"Cass, will you open the guestroom door, please," Janet said, her voice strained by the weight and disproportionate physics. Cassie slipped by them and pulled open the door. Sam thanked her as they passed, and they dropped him unceremoniously onto the bed.

Janet stepped from the room a moment, and when she came back, she was carrying an armful of towels. "I'm taking no chances," she said, tossing the towels next to Daniel. She pulled one off the top and unfolded it, spread it out next to his face, and went for a second towel. Sam grabbed one and did the same on the opposite side of his head.

After the towels were laid out, they stepped back and looked at their semi-conscious friend.

"So—what?—he just showed up at your door?" Sam asked.

"Yup."

"He actually drove here in that condition?"

"Stunning, isn't it."

"More like terrifying."

"Is there something I should know?" Janet asked.

"I'm not sure. Maybe."

"Does the colonel know?"

"I think he has his suspicions."

Cassie stood shielded behind her mother, unable to look away from Daniel's sprawled form. "Is he going to be okay?"

Janet took a step back and kissed her daughter's cheek, pushed her hair over her shoulder, over her ear. "In a few hours, he'll sober up."

The young girl couldn't take her eyes off him. "Is he breathing?"

"Yes."

"He looks awful."

"Why don't we let him sleep now," Janet said, ushering her impressionable daughter out of the room and into the kitchen where she offered her an enormous bowl of ice cream, any or all flavors. Cassie, unsurprisingly, asked for a small scoopful of each—save for the green tea flavor, which she deemed too 'weird.' Janet also planned on offering her daughter a later talk on the truth about alcohol and the devastation that can be associated with it. In a strange way, Janet was almost thankful for the Technicolor display Daniel had shown Cassie. Janet could only hope that Cassie would find it a warning and not a fascination. Or, god forbid, a temptation.

But judging from the way Cassie was listlessly dabbing at her multicolored ice cream, Janet was pretty sure the silver lining to this afternoon was the valuable lesson Cassie seemed to have taken away. Maybe Janet wouldn't need to have that talk with her daughter, after all.

"How ya doin', Cass?" Sam asked, taking a seat next to her, giving her shoulders a quick hug.

"Okay, I guess."

"Can I have a bite?" She picked up a spoon, smiled at her young friend, and snuck a little for herself. Sam thought it important to regain a sense of normality for Cassie's sake. There was no reason, she decided, for someone as young as Cassie to have to shoulder any portion of burden over Daniel's behavior. "Mmm. That's good."

"The peppermint is kind of good, too," Cassie half-heartedly offered. "I mixed it with the chocolate."

Sam dipped her spoon in and portioned out equal parts, equally large. She shoveled the entire spoonful into her mouth, tasted the mixture, lifted her eyebrows and nodded. Despite all she had seen and had to deal with today, she helplessly started to giggle, clamping a hand to her mouth to keep the ice cream from spilling out.

Janet tossed a napkin to her, smiling. "I think we've had enough drooling for one day."

Both Cassie and Sam snickered, then fell silent. Sam rested her chin in her upraised hand, and said, "Have you given any thought about what we're going to tell the colonel?"

"Tell the colonel what?" Jack asked, entering the room, two full grocery bags leading the way.

Sam and Janet shared a quick look, and Sam said, "It's Daniel. He…"

"He has a migraine," Janet took over, keeping her eye on Sam, who nodded after only a momentary pause.

"We…we told him to go lie down in the guestroom."

"I gave him some samples of Imitrex, and that pretty much knocked him out."

"Oh, yeah?" Jack said, finding an interesting kernel of information in the explanation. "What other samples do you have?"

"I have some Cialis? Interested?"

Jack dropped a shoulder, sneered, and dumped his bags on the counter.

"What this?" Sam asked, opening them.

"I brought ice cream," Jack said, pleased with himself, waiting to bask in the warmth of shared adulation. When the three women simply stared at him, Jack blinked. "It's chocolate."

"Try it with peppermint," Cassie said, returning to her ice cream.

Jack leaned over and inspected Cassie's bowl. He made eye contact with Sam, and said, "But I always bring the ice cream."

"Yes, sir," Sam said, taking the four cartons of chocolate ice cream to the freezer.

Teal'c stood quietly behind them, a large white parcel in his hands.

"Are those the steaks?" Janet asked, taking them from his hands.

With a nod, Teal'c said, "They are, indeed."

"My god, Teal'c," Janet said, stooping from the weight, "how many people did you think would show up?"

"I have observed Colonel O'Neill, DanielJackson and Major Carter's eating habits. I thought it wise to err on the side of caution."

"Well, that's very…thoughtful of you," Janet said, making room for the package in the refrigerator.

Jack took a seat next to the two and motioned for Cass to hand over her ice cream, which she didn't. "You can get more," he reminded her.

"Go get your own," Cassie said, wrapping a protective arm around her bowl. Jack spun off the stool, putting as much indignation into his movements as possible, and swiveled around the other side of the counter.

"So. Carter," he said.

"I'm not getting your ice cream," she told him, shaking her head.

"Obviously, rank has no privileges," he sighed, coming eye-to-eye with her.

Sam leaned toward her 2IC, and said, "Not when it comes to ice cream."

The remainder of the afternoon was filled with the mouth-watering aromas of perfectly barbecued steaks, corn on the cob and potato salad. Their chatter never strayed beyond anything deeper than their meals, or what happened on "The Simpson's" that week, and that was generally a one-sided conversation.

Even through all the clatter and talk, when Janet went to check on him, she noted that Daniel hadn't stirred once. He hadn't even changed position.

The glorious late fall weather acquiesced to gray clouds and rain and the party reluctantly moved to the kitchen. When fat pellets of rain began to splotch the patio, Jack and Teal'c made their goodbyes, a carton of ice cream tucked under each arm. That left Janet, Sam and Cass to clean up. Janet again checked on a still sleeping Daniel.

At seven, Janet wiped her hands on the dishtowel, and Sam put the broom back into the pantry. They were just about to sit down to watch a movie when a shadowy figure crossed to the door. Janet and Sam stopped what they were doing and watched Daniel attempt an escape. His hair sticking up in tangles and cowlicks, he opened the front door and closed it with a soft click. He hid his fisted hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold rain.

"You're sure," Janet said, turning to Sam.

"I disconnected the battery," Sam told her. They moved to the front window and watched him get in his car and reach to start it.

"This could seriously piss him off," Sam said.

"Good."

Daniel hunched over the steering wheel, biting his lower lip. He turned the key in the ignition, and nothing.

"Maybe we should—"

Sam stepped to the door. "No, I'll go out there." Janet gave Sam an umbrella, and Sam closed the door behind her, slid her hand into her back pocket, and sauntered over to Daniel and his useless vehicle. A sound of distant thunder tumbled over the sky. When she reached his car door, she rapped her knuckle against the window. "Daniel, it's not going to start."

Daniel ignored her and tried to turn the key over one more time.

"I sabotaged your car. You're only going to end up wearing out your starter. Leave it."

Daniel dropped his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. He really didn't need to deal with this right now. What he _needed,_ was to get home. He pressed the toggle on his power window to tell Sam just that, and when he did, nothing happened.

"The battery is _dead_, Daniel," Sam said, raising her voice so she could be heard through the glass and over the rain.

Daniel scowled and cursed under his breath. No, he didn't need this. He needed other things—a tumbler full of scotch, a stein full of beer, a pint full of, well, anything—but Sam's sick attempt at a practical joke, no, he didn't need that, at all.

"Whatever you did, fix it," he said through gritted teeth, never looking at her, trying to stay calm. "I would like to go home now."

"What?"

"I said whatever you did, fix it!" Daniel slammed his hands against his steering wheel. "Dammit! I just want to go home!"

"I'm sorry, you'll have to come outside so I can hear you," Sam said, wondering if Daniel was really that stupid to fall for such a trick.

Daniel groaned, swore a few more times, and kicked open his door, a snide part of him hoping it would hit Sam. Once out, he pulled his collar over his head and said, "Whatever the hell you did to—"

"I disconnected the battery."

"Then _fix_ it," he snarled, but in place of his anger, the boom of thunder made the point for him.

"I will," she told him, "tomorrow. Tonight, I'm driving you home."

He glared at her, but she only met his angry gaze full on. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're probably legally drunk," Sam told him. "You can't drive."

"I'm not drunk."

"You _were_ just a couple hours ago, and you still are now."

"Fix my car."

"No."

"Then I'll fix it myself."

"Without the cables, you won't be getting very far."

"Dammit, Sam!"

"You have a choice—either you go back in Janet's house and sleep this off, or you let me drive you home."

"I'm_ not_ having this conversation," he said, turning back to his car.

"You're out of control!" she hollered over the thunderous rain.

"What right do you have to—"

"I'm done covering for you, Daniel."

And for a brief moment, Daniel couldn't feel the rain. Rising panic swept over him, instead. "Covering what?"

"From now on, if I even _suspect_ that you've been drinking, I'm making it known."

"Oh, is that right?" he managed.

"Yes!"

Daniel stared at her, furious. Then he forced himself to take a step back, both physically and mentally. What the hell right did she have to threaten him like this? With that thought, anger replaced the panic and he welcomed it.

Look, Sam," he said, speaking slowly and carefully so she'd finally listen. "Now and again, I drink. It's not a big deal, and I'm getting sick of this bullshit from all of you. Especially you and Jack butting in where you don't belong." A concussive clap of thunder made them both flinch.

"We're concerned about you," Sam said, hunched under the umbrella.

"Don't be. I'm fine."

"You have a problem."

"No… I don't," he protested. "You can't possibly understand—"

"Try me, Daniel."

Daniel shook his head and glared at her. "I have no intention of discussing my…my private life with you! Especially not here, in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm. Jesus, Sam!"

"Daniel, we've been down this road before. Remember the sarcophagus? Remember going through that, how you told me I didn't really know what love was? Do you?" she demanded. Daniel turned away from her. "Well, once again, if you were sober, you wouldn't talk to me this way, and you sure as hell wouldn't be behaving this way."

"You're way out of line, Sam, so just back the hell off," he warned, pushing her aside. Sam grabbed his hand and twisted it behind his back, forcing him to drop to his knees on the sodden ground. Daniel darted his head around to stare at her in shock. "What the hell? Why are you doing this?"

"Because I can!" she shouted, wrenching his hand higher up his back. Daniel cried out in pain. "And because you can't stop me, not anymore. Not like this." With one last torque, Sam let go and stomped through the rain to her car. "Come on. Let's go."

Still on his knees, his heart pounding with shock and fury, Daniel rubbed his shoulder and nursed his pride. There was no way in _hell_ he was going anywhere with Sam, which left one option. Janet didn't ask questions or pass judgment like Sam did, so he'd just knock on her door and ask if he could—

And then he saw Cassie, wide-eyed and watching him through the living room window, her small hands pressed against the glass. Daniel was crushed under her gaze. He hoped the ground would somehow open up, swallow him whole and he could just disappear and this would be over. It didn't matter anymore that it was raining, that he had a pride that needed bolstering. It no longer mattered that he couldn't stand the thought of being anywhere near Sam and her damned accusations. Knowing that Cassie was behind that rain-drenched window and seeing him at his worst went beyond anything he could bear. He scrambled to his feet, slipped on the wet grass, and made his way to Sam's car.

Covered in grass, mud and soaked to the bone, he slid into the passenger seat and hoped to God that Sam would just drive. Darting a glance at her, he noticed that Sam was visibly shaking. She put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway without a word. She braked a little too fast, threw the car into drive a little too harshly. Daniel stared straight ahead, unwilling, and, he had to admit, unable to make eye contact with his friend. He didn't have the energy to face up to Sam's anger, nor could he summon any will to care. All he could he think of was that look on Cassie's face—a mingling of shock, fear and maybe disgust, even. When the nausea came, he didn't know if it was from the alcohol or from self-hatred. He forced himself not to think about it anymore. Forgetting could come later. He forced himself to remain detached from it all. It was easier that way.

They had driven maybe ten minutes in stony silence when Sam felt calm enough to make an attempt at conversation. She glanced at Daniel's profile and was struck by how pale and haggard he appeared. Taking a deep breath, and in as placid a voice as she could summon, she asked, "Did I hurt you?"

Daniel shook his head.

"Daniel, you know I've been trying to help you, but I can't cover for you anymore."

"So stop then," he muttered, rubbing his forehead and turning his face to gaze out the rain dappled passenger window.

"You know it's not as simple as that!" Sam all but shouted. The anger and the frustration were resurfacing, and she fought to keep it under control. Getting angry wasn't going to resolve anything. She had to make Daniel realize what he was doing to himself. "What I'm saying is that you need to stop this, or you're going to wind up off the team," she said, hoping she'd get through to him. When it seemed like he wasn't listening, she decided to pull her next card. "What happens when you get pulled over for a DUI, or worse, you kill somebody. Or you kill yourself?"

"Then I suppose I'll be dead."

"Stop it, Daniel. I'm serious."

Daniel let out a humorless laugh. "I think you're being a little melodramatic."

"No, I don't think so." Sam shook her head and glared at her friend, but he wasn't looking at her. "Have you even taken a good look at yourself lately? You're a mess, and even now, you can't even see straight, yet you drove from god knows where to Janet's. What the hell were you thinking? Oh wait. You weren't thinking, were you? You're too drunk to think, and that's the whole problem, isn't it, Daniel?"

"All right, fine. You've made your point, Sam." Daniel tightly clasped his arms over his chest, keeping his gaze stubbornly averted from Sam's. "I shouldn't have driven. I shouldn't have shown up. I won't bother you again."

Sam slapped the steering wheel in frustration. _"Dammit,_ Daniel, don't twist this around…" Sam sucked in a breath, tried to think of a way to get through to her friend.

"Just give it a rest for now, Sam, all right?" he said quietly. "I'm not talking about this anymore."

Sam ground her teeth. She wanted to shout at him, but, instead, she forced herself to remain silent. Three traffic lights later, she glanced in Daniel's direction and he had tipped his head back, eyes closed, as though he were asleep, but the tense frown and tightness around his mouth betrayed that he wasn't. He was simply tuning her out. And, Sam decided, it was probably for the best for now. Daniel wasn't in any shape to see reason, nor was Sam in any mood to be reasonable.

As she drove the rest of the way, the only sounds were that of the tires whooshing on the wet streets and the wipers scraping across the windshield. As she neared Daniel's street, Sam noticed he had turned his head slightly to look out the passenger window, no longer bothering with the pretense of sleep. All she could make out of his features were the outline of his cheekbone, jaw and the slow rise and fall of his lashes as he blinked tiredly. The raindrops on the windshield cast shadows on his face, making it look as though he were crying. Sam felt like crying herself, wrung out from the tension between them.

Sam was grateful when they finally reached Daniel's building and she pulled the car up close to the main entrance. Before she could even come to a full stop, Daniel startled her by yanking his door open and stumbling out of the car.

"Daniel—wait!"

Without glancing back at her, Daniel gave her a brief, backward wave that was more of a dismissal than goodbye.

Sam watched as he strode to the front door, fumbled for his key and stepped inside, disappearing from sight. For a long time after, Sam let the car idle in front of the building, rain drumming on the roof, the world awash in a watery haze. Sitting alone in her car, Daniel's absence did nothing to alleviate the tension in the small space. All at once, Sam realized the odd feeling that consumed her whenever she was around him lately wasn't anger, nor was it frustration. It was fear. She was scared for him.

With something close to desperation, she also realized that she was completely powerless to help her friend. Sam had always been able to repair everything she set her mind to fixing. Able to sift through any conundrum from every possible angle until she found the solution, and yet despite her best efforts, her best friend was still slipping away from her.

All she had done for Daniel over the past five months was stand by and watch him drown.

---SG1---

The irony of it all had to make Daniel laugh. After weeks, months of speculation on Jack's, Sam's, Teal'c's and even Janet's part, here he was, dry for four days, and feeling fine.

And it was all thanks to the unknowing efforts of Sam and Janet.

They had arrived in Egypt in search of a stolen artifact and Steven Rayner. Knowing the severity of the situation with a potential Goa'uld threat on Earth, for the most part, Daniel hadn't had much to drink.

But that flight to Cairo was long, and the adrenaline rush was dissipating. Somewhere over the Atlantic, the crushing headaches began and the electric tremors in his hands started. Thanks to his top-level clearance, Daniel's backpack made it onto the plane without as much as a glance. At least not from the airmen who helped prepare the flight. Sam—well, Sam was a different story. Her continual, fleeting glances were that of distrust. Daniel was fairly sure he deserved them, but she couldn't possibly understand what he was going through. Even if she could, what business was it of hers?

So when he got up from his seat and pulled his pack from the cargo hold above him, Sam immediately came over to question him.

"I'm going to go shave, Sam," Daniel told her, ready with an excuse before Sam even had a chance to question him. "If that's all right with you?"

"Fine," she said, and he knew by looking at her that she didn't believe him.

"Fine."

And safe in the confines of the tiny bathroom, Daniel searched through his pack for the four airline-sized bottles of vodka he had bought at the liquor store one day on his way to work. Those two-ouncers were portable, easily slipped away, and, most importantly, were just the right size for taking the edge off when he needed it most.

And _God,_ did he ever need to take the edge off…

He fished around in the crevices of the bag. He unzipped the sides completely and searched with his eyes, as well. Wiping sweat from his forehead, Daniel began to implore the bottles to show up. Then, his fingers found one. One. He yanked it out, twisted off the cap, and downed its meager contents without the mouth of the bottle ever touching his lips. He just poured and swallowed. The stuff couldn't get into his bloodstream fast enough. Pressing his back flat against the wall of the bathroom, he dropped his head back with a muted thud and closed his eyes. Two ounces were a start, but he needed more. He was breathing hard, as if he had just sprinted the distance between here and there. His hands went back to the work of excavation, unzipping side pockets, inner pockets, emptying containers. A second bottle turned up crammed inside his camera case and relief rushed thought him. Jimmying out the bottle with shaking hands, he gulped down the contents. It wouldn't be long now.

In the meantime, he thought he had better actually shave. From the bottom of his pack, he removed his travel kit, what Jack liked to refer to as Daniel's own personal beauty regiment kit. _And Jack wonders why I drink_, he thought. With hands that were now almost under control, Daniel opened the case and found his razor, his cake of shaving cream, his toothbrush and tooth paste, eye drops and a sample-sized bottle of mouthwash. Clear mouthwash. Clear mouthwash in a mint mouthwash container. He unscrewed the top and took a sniff. Decidedly not mint. Daniel stared at the bottle. He wondered when he had filled it.

He stared at it a moment longer, then swallowed it down, too.

He grasped the small sink, closed his eyes, and let his head droop for a moment. God, he was tired. There was some turbulence, and he lost balance, but caught himself before hitting the floor. At least he hoped it was turbulence. Could it have been him? He opened his eyes, and waited for another turbulent. Nothing. He studied his features in the mirror. The harsh, fluorescent lighting cast terribly unflattering shadows across his face. He pulled off his glasses, set them on the counter. He turned on the water, cupped his hands underneath the stream. He splashed the cold water on his face, hoping that it would bring some color to his gray-tinged cheeks. He looked again at his bloodshot eyes, at the sunken, dark sockets, at the deep lines around and between his eyes. He used the eye drops and it burned, like sand in his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut, ran his tongue against his teeth. His tongue couldn't quite make out the texture of his teeth, which was a good sign that the shakes and the jitters and the headache would begin to abate soon after.

Which meant he'd better shave in that trough of time between how he had felt and how he'd soon feel. He lathered up, cocked his head, and pulled down on the skin of his neck. A dull blade. However, it raked against a generally numb face, so…

There. Shaved, cleaned up, and equalized. He rubbed an extra dollop of toothpaste far back on his tongue for good measure. One last look. One more dose of eye drops. Done.

Daniel made his way back to his seat, thankful for the minor set of turbulence that might mask any of his own turbulence. He tossed his bag into his seat and found a corner of his own. "I'm gonna catch some shuteye," he told Sam. He curled up amongst the supplies that were making the trip with them and closed his eyes. Still, he knew Sam was watching him, appraising him. What did he care? The bees that had been swarming through his veins only moments ago were now back in their hive. All was good with the world.

Forty-eight hours later, Daniel and Sam were sitting in Steven Raynor's military hospital room, waiting for him regain consciousness so they could fill in the holes of his memory with lies. Sam was on the phone with General Hammond, and Daniel was fingering the singed weal on his forehead. Hour after hour, they waited for Steven to open his eyes. Hour after hour, Daniel felt worse, his headache pitching up notch after notch until it was nearly unbearable.

Sam covered the mouthpiece on her phone, and looked at him. "You okay?"

"Headache," Daniel told her truthfully without opening his eyes and massaging his aching brow.

"I'll get Janet."

"No, I'm…" _Gonna be sick_, he decided, cold sweat breaking out on his skin. With a blinding pain behind his eyes, he staggered to the bathroom, turned on the water in the sink full stream, then collapsed in front of the toilet and vomited what felt like everything he'd eaten for the past three days.

"Shit," he gasped, staggering up from the commode. He leaned over the sink's basin and rested his pounding head on his arm. He cupped some water into his hand, sipped from it and spit it back out, trembling from head to foot. This was bad. He knew he had been a little out of control, but he had no idea how far he had allowed it to go. And he couldn't even blame his pathetic state on the ribbon device. He'd been on the receiving end of that thing twice before, and it hadn't felt like this. No, this was different. This was something worse.

He splashed some more water on his face, anchored his hands on the sink, and breathed in a few shuddering breaths. "God," he whispered.

"Daniel?" Janet called from the other side of the door.

Daniel peered at his reflection, his red eyes, his sweat-dappled skin. "Um, yeah! Give me a minute, okay?"

"Daniel, I'm coming in," she said, pushing open the door.

Nowhere to turn, Daniel braced himself for the questions he knew were coming.

"Sam said you looked ill. Headache?"

What could it hurt to tell her the truth? He nodded and pressed the heel of his palm into his eye. "Yeah. Crushing."

Taking hold of his wrist to check his pulse, she asked, "Nausea? Vomiting?"

_What the hell…_ "Yeah."

"Well, you know what I think it is," she said, leaning back against the door. Daniel was fairly sure what she was about to say, and he certainly knew what he thought it was—that awful drying out period. "I think the ribbon device had more of an effect on you than you're letting on."

Daniel took in her expression, hoping she wasn't messing with him. "Makes as much sense as anything," he muttered.

"I've had good results back at the SGC with beta blockers to manage the after-effects of the ribbon device," she said, rubbing his arm a little to offer some comfort. "I'm going to have the nurse bring you some for the pain."

He made a show of reluctantly accepting the medication, told Janet that she was fussing unnecessarily over him, and that he was _fine_. All of which was met with Janet's no-nonsense attitude and doctor's orders to rest for the remainder of the day.

In truth, Daniel was grateful to her, and the medication couldn't kick in fast enough. Since he couldn't have a drink, well then, the drugs would have to suffice, and they did. They knocked him out cold for about 10 hours, and he woke up feeling a little achy, but otherwise fine. Better than fine. _Good, _even

Two days later, walking the halls of this US-held Air Force base in the middle of Egypt, Daniel felt great, better than he had in months. Which was good, because until he was back at the SGC, he didn't know when his next drink would come.

Maybe he didn't even need a drink. His drying-out period hadn't lasted as long as he'd thought it would. He presumed that was because he really hadn't been drinking as much as he'd thought. Maybe it was over, this latest episode.

Rounding the corner, he collided with Sam.

"Daniel! Sorry," she said. She stepped aside to let him go by. He didn't.

"I'm, uh…I'm going down to the mess hall, get some lunch. Did you eat yet?" he asked.

Sam brushed her hair out of her eyes, looking strangely bewildered by his question, and answered, "No."

"Wanna… get something?"

She sighed. "Sure."

Walking toward the cafeteria, they didn't speak. Truth be told, they hadn't really spoken about anything other than their missions in months. When he and Sam _did_ speak off the clock, it was all arguments and accusations, and he couldn't take that anymore. Their lives—all of them: Jack, Teal'c, Sam, Janet, and Daniel—seemed to be taking opposite trajectories.

When did it begin? In Russia? No, before. Euronda, certainly. Jack had been short with Daniel; Daniel had been short with Sam; Sam was…

It was even further back. It was…

Daniel felt a sudden heaviness press against his chest. His pace hitched, briefly. The onus, he realized, was all on him. He thought he should stop, right in the middle of the hallway, face Sam and tell her of his realization. But he didn't. He kept walking, carded his hand through his hair, and just kept walking.

"I've been a little detached lately," he said, hoping he sounded sincere enough for Sam to believe him. Hoping she, too, would understand the symbolic gesture of movement, how he was working toward overcoming this inertia in their relationship by forward movement. Somehow, he knew what he had to tell her must be said in transit. _Please don't slow down, Sam… _"I know I've been… distant. I guess… Which is to say, it really…"

"What, Daniel?" she questioned, her voice softer than he'd heard in many months.

Daniel scuffed his feet along the floors, still gaining ground. "When Sha're died… It took more out of me than I expected."

"I know," she said, hooking her hands behind her back, walking slowly alongside him.

Daniel sucked in a deep breath. "I just want you to know that…that I'm back. I'm here. And…and I'm sorry."

Sam blinked with surprise. "Okay," she said after a moment. Even so, he didn't believe that she really was okay with his answer. Not yet anyway. They just needed some time, and they'd make it back. In time.

"Wow, I'm famished," he said with mock surprise, rubbing his stomach.

"Really?"

"Well, yeah. It's 1400. I didn't have much breakfast. Aren't you hungry?"

"It's just that I haven't really seen you eating much lately."

That seemed an odd thing to say, but he continued walking. Oddities aside, they were still making progress. "I eat," he corrected, trying not sound too indignant.

"Not lately. Lately, you just drink."

That stopped him in his tracks. Sam stopped, too, a few feet in front. She turned to face him. She squared her jaw and looked him straight in the eye. It was more than Daniel was prepared for. He dropped his gaze to his feet.

"I know. You're right," he said, and when he glanced at her, she seemed surprised by his admission. "I've, uh… I've been hitting the bottle pretty hard lately, but," he paused, then raised his eyes to meet hers, his gaze somehow both challenging and imploring, "it's over, Sam. I'm done. I, uh… I do this every couple of years. I don't know why… losing Sha're, I guess was… was too hard… but it's over now. I promise I'll make it up to you. I'm finished."

"Uh-huh. When's the last time you had a drink?" Sam asked, her expression and voice steely.

Daniel felt his face burn with shame. "I… don't recall. A couple of weeks ago, maybe?"

"No, Daniel," Sam said with almost a sneer. "Try four days ago, on the cargo plane coming over. You forgot a couple of your mini-bar empties in the sink. Good thing I was the one who found them, huh?"

He flinched as though she'd struck him. There it was, the cold hard truth of it all. Finally. He started at her stunned, sickened by his own carelessness and stupidity. Even still, he tried to think of a way to convincingly explain it, to cover up. When all he found in her eyes was pain and anger, he bit back the excuses. He'd seen that look so many times before—in Sha're's eyes, in Sara's eyes. He'd seen it someplace else, too. He stared at Sam until that other, nearly forgotten face became clear, until those familiar yet disapproving, questioning, pain-filled eyes were brought into focus.

"_This can't go on, Claire," Daniel's father would say when he thought his young son was far from earshot. "We can't go on like this."_

"_I'm not having this conversation with you, Melburn," she'd answer, lifting her drink to her lips. Her answer to most things._

"Daniel, I need to know when this ends," Sam said, yanking him back to the present, both with her cutting words and the rough tug on his arm.

"What?"

"I need to know that all the lying, all the covering up—that it's over." Sam's eyes were bright with tears and that shamed him ever more. "I can't do this anymore."

What could he say? He knew those eyes. He understood that look of betrayal. Of realization. His masquerade had finally, fully been exposed, and there really wasn't anything more to say, was there? Something that felt strangely like relief washed over him. There was nothing more to hide.

"You know what, Sam?" Daniel finally said. "I'm not having this conversation anymore. What _I_ need right now is to get some lunch." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the commissary. "Are you coming, or not?"

Sam just stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Okay, fine," he said with a shrug, "catch you later." With that, he turned and strode away, leaving her standing alone in the corridor.

* * *

---tbc---


	12. Reparations pt 4

* * *

Officer Shandley punched the numbers from the license plate into his on-board computer. The file for one _Jackson, Daniel,_ came up. Six two. Blue eyes. Corrective lenses. Resident of the Springs. The officer picked up his flashlight and walked up the side of the car parked in front of him. He shined the flashlight in the side mirror, casting a glaring light on the driver's face, who winced.

"Evening," Officer Shandley said, taking a quick glance in the car. "You know why I stopped you tonight?"

Daniel had been asking himself the same question. "Actually, no," he said truthfully. "I don't think I was speeding." He flipped open his wallet against the top of his steering wheel, constantly keeping his hands in plain view, and when he did he saw how they visibly trembled.

The officer shined the light directly into Daniel's face, once again garnering a wince from the driver. "You've been drinking tonight, sir?"

Daniel looked up at the officer and had to think. "No," he said, shaking his head, rather surprised as well. "No, I haven't."

The officer observed the shaking hands, the red eyes and clammy skin. He'd stopped hundreds, probably thousands of drunk drivers in his time. He knew what they looked like. "I'll need to see your license and registration and proof of insurance."

"Right. Right," Daniel said, fumbling with his wallet, while the interior of his car flashed off and on red. Between the cruiser's lights and the spot in his face, Daniel's head began to throb. "You think you can lower that thing?" he asked, closing his left eye while handing the officer his information.

"How's your driving record, sir?" The patrolman thrust the flashlight under his arm and looked over Daniel's license.

"It's, uh, it's fine. Clean," Daniel said, and his mind raced to come up with some reason for having been pulled over, for when exactly he had had his last drink. How fast, he wondered, does alcohol metabolize?

"Mr. Jackson, I'm going to ask you to step outside," the officer said, still perusing the registration.

Daniel gaped at the man. "Um, why?"

"I followed you southbound on Academy Boulevard, onto Palmer Park, and in that time I've observed some erratic driving," he said, bending over to take a closer look into Daniel's car.

Daniel's pulse quickened, his hands began to sweat. "Erratic driving?"

"Yes, sir. Step out of the car, sir."

Daniel swallowed hard, tried to breathe. He tossed his wallet onto the passenger seat and opened the car door. Erratic driving? What had he been doing? Swinging his legs out of the car, he asked, "Exactly what entails erratic driving?"

"Step over here, Mr. Jackson," the officer instructed, pointing to the harshly illuminated area between the two cars. "When's the last time you had a drink?"

"Um, not recently," " Daniel said, swallowing, trying to remember. "I can't really… Not in the last couple of days, at least. Look, officer, I think there's been a mistake," he tried to explain. While they walked, harshly learned lessons at the hands of less-polite captors bubbled up, and he had a moment where he thought he should raise his hands over his head.

"That's fine, sir, right there. I'd like you to walk away from me, heel to toe, arms outstretched, and when you get to the edge of the shoulder, turn around. Are these directions clear, Mr. Jackson?"

What if Sam or Jack drove by right at this moment? What would they think? What if ANY of the people from Cheyenne Mountain happened to pass by, how long would it take that kind of news to get around the SGC and to the general? Daniel felt himself getting dizzy with fear.

"I haven't been drinking, officer," he said, and from somewhere deep beneath the panic that rushed through his body, his rational mind kicked in. "I haven't been drinking. And if memory serves, I have a right to refuse submitting to any…" What was it that Jack had told him? Daniel lowered his eyes and racked his brain for the information.

"Field sobriety test," the patrolman offered.

"Right. Yes. So," he said, biting the inside of his cheek, "I think I'd rather refuse." He hoped, lord, he hoped he was right. The police officer locked eyes on him, and Daniel shivered while perspiration rolled down his neck.

"Would you agree to a breathalyzer test?"

"How long would that take?"

The officer pulled the pocket-sized analyzer from his breast pocket and began to calibrate the instrument. "I need one puff of air, sir, then you can wait in your vehicle while I check the results."

"I'm not drunk," Daniel said, finding he needed, for whatever reason, to defend his pride and reputation. "I'm just tired. It's been a long…week."

"Yes, sir," he said, holding the breathalyzer up to Daniel's face. "Deep breath. Exhale into the tube, sir."

Daniel squinted in order to see the tube in which he was to breathe, wrapped his lips around the plastic, blew into it, and felt a crushing sense of humiliation.

"You can go back to your car while I run the test," the officer said, returning to his own cruiser. Daniel shoved his trembling hands into his coat pockets and walked as calmly as he could back to his car, traffic whooshing by him.

He closed the door and grabbed hold of the steering wheel. He stared straight ahead, now and then glancing at his rearview mirror to check on the officer. How long was this going to take? How much longer did he have to stay on the shoulder of this busy street where anybody could see him? What if the breathalyzer could pick up vestiges of alcohol use? Should he call somebody? Who would he call? Sam he immediately ruled out, and Jack already had far too many suspicions. Did he need a lawyer? No, there was nothing to worry about. He wasn't drunk, was he? God, he needed to talk to somebody. Bill Lee, he'd call Bill. No. Not Bill. He didn't know Bill's number, and besides, he didn't really know Bill all that well.

"Jesus," Daniel murmured, pushing his hand under his glasses to rub his burning eyes.

"Well, Mr. Jackson, you're free to go," the officer said, appearing at Daniel's window. "Your test results came back negative, and your record is clean." He handed Daniel his license, registration and insurance card, but not, to Daniel's great relief, a ticket. "Back on Academy, you were weaving in your lane pretty good and driving under the speed limit. I'm going to let you off with a warning."

"Thank you."

"Are you on your way home, Mr. Jackson?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Get some sleep. Sleep deprivation contributes to some pretty bad accidents." The officer tapped the doorframe and bid Daniel a good night. Daniel nodded to the officer, placed his license back in his wallet, finding it difficult with shaking, sweating hands. He rolled up his window and turned on the ignition. Taking a prolonged look behind him—it would be just his luck to pull out into an on-coming car—he rolled onto the street, leaving the police vehicle, lights still swirling, behind him.

He scanned the roadside for a speed limit sign, paying particular attention to stay directly in the center of his lane. He looked back to see if the officer was following him. No. Good. Forty-five MPH. He looked at his speedometer—forty-three. Close enough. Still not being followed, he pulled off on Iowa Street. He was pretty sure there was a small park somewhere in the neighborhood. Residential area—twenty-five MPH. He checked and rechecked his speedometer, almost missing the stop sign.

"Shit!" he cried in reaction, slamming on the brakes. He took a deep breath, licked his parched lips, and proceeded down the street.

Without streetlights, it was hard to make out, but when his headlights picked up the city sign, he began to relax. Lunar Park—that was it. He knew there was a park back here. He pulled into the gravel parking lot, found a secluded spot—not hard at 2130. Both hands gripped the steering wheel, and his entire body began to shake. He threw the car into park and cut the ignition in time for the first sob. Right hand pressed to his mouth, he stared into the black of night, trembling, overwhelmed by the terror of what could have happened.

What would have happened had he been drinking? The question piled through his mind, and all he could do was blindly absorb its reality. Tears streamed down his face and over the shaking fingers pressed to his mouth. How close had he come to being arrested? Any other night, he thought, he would have been drunk, but not this night. Why? Half sentences and harsh reality zipped through his mind—_lose license; lose job; Jack; who'd bail me out?; what's wrong with me?; police stations; God, Sam…; hate this…_

Pushing away from the steering wheel and leaning back into his seat, Daniel dropped his head against the headrest and tried to calm down, but his thoughts wouldn't stop racing. How could he explain an arrest for DUI? What if the officer had followed him? Would he wonder why a grown man was sitting in the middle of a parking lot in the dark of night crying? Would he suspect that any other night he would have been able to take Mr. Jackson to prison? Daniel's eyes widened—could he be arrested for retroactive DUI? Would any other officer know just by looking at him that he was a drunk, just not tonight? Daniel shook his head, scared and feeling more alone than he could ever remember, hardly able to breathe through his clogged nose.

What could he do? Everything seemed to be spiraling out of control. His whole life. What could he do? It was all just too…What could he do? He needed to…to…There was too much he needed. Sleep. His wife. A drink…

His throat ached, his stomach clenched. He pressed both hands to his swollen eyes and tried to stop the tears. He swiped his palms across his cheeks, and in an instant they were wet again, the skin under his eyes feeling raw and scraped.

"What do I do?" he whispered. Dropping his hands into his lap, he gave up and let the tears fall. In time, they stopped, but his breath still hitched and his chest hurt so badly it felt as though something had ruptured inside him. His lungs burned, his eyes, too. He blinked away the last tears, muted any sound by pressing his lips together, teeth clamped so hard on his upper lip he tasted the copper of his own blood. The energy drained away from his body, and his depleted spirit implored the night.

"Help me," he whispered to no one, a useless request. No one ever heard.

---SG1---

If he didn't think too much about it, he might actually be able to go through with this. He thought he might actually do what he knew he had to do—walk into the meeting, state his purpose, and get the hell out. That was it.

Unfortunately, not thinking was never one of his strong points, and so it was with great resentment that he made his way to the community center where the meeting was to be held. On the bright side and laced with the sort of irony that Daniel always enjoyed, he realized that the community center just happened to be directly across the street from one of his favorite bars. There seemed to be a justice in the world, after all.

That police officer had given him a good scare, all right. But once the high tension of the event went away and he could analyze what had truly happened, Daniel had decided that, no, he wasn't really in trouble like he'd thought. He had just been tired, that's all. Hell, he hadn't had a drink in days before the stop. That alone was evidence that spoke toward his personal belief that he didn't have a drinking problem, but a terrific lack-of-sleep problem.

So, why did he find himself stepping into the world of the friendly neighborhood Alcoholics Anonymous? He wasn't doing this because he believed he had to be here. He was going to this meeting to make a point, to gain the proper ammunition it would take to shoot down the constant nagging in his mind (and others' minds), and he intended to make that perfectly clear. No, he'd seen alcoholics in his time. Hell, he hung out with bars full of drunks most nights, so he knew what they looked like, what they smelled like. That wasn't him. All he needed was proof, tangible or intangible, that he wasn't…Well, whatever they called themselves, he wasn't it.

He was just an ordinary citizen outside the doors of the community center. If anyone saw him walking in, they'd think he was there to take a class, maybe even to teach a class. Highly unlikely, yes, either way, but there was at the very least an element of plausible deniability. Daniel thrived in plausibility of that kind of denial. And so he stood transfixed on the sidewalk, ten yards from those doors that stood at the top of cracking, crumbling concrete steps, wondering how his life might change once he was on the other side.

"This is ridiculous," he told himself, and charged the steps, threw open the aluminum and glass doors, sailed through the entrance and into the vestibule.

He walked the halls, never bothering to ask the receptionist for directions. He had been given a room number when he'd called the hotline—room 102. He was fairly sure he could manage finding a ridiculous room without having to stoop to ask directions. After all, these were not his people, and he needed neither pitying eyes, nor empathetic nods.

There wasn't a sign that broadcast the reason for the people milling around behind the dappled-glass doors. There wasn't a greeter at the door, asking for his coat, oh, and any bottles you might have on you, as he thought they might. There wasn't a sign-in sheet on a pedestal when he walked into the room with its stained, gray carpet, its nondescript neutral walls, with peeling paint, a slight, organic mustiness intermingling with the stale cigarette smoke. No one in the room seemed to give a damn he had walked in. Not a single one. In fact, if truth be told, Daniel was a little disappointed that it was so uninviting. The feeling quickly passed. He wandered as casually as he could amongst the others, every one of them with a prop in his or her hand—a cigarette, a Styrofoam coffee cup, a tightly balled-up napkin. They seemed to hover around the room, noncommittal and tense. Men and women, most of them under fifty, shuffled about, heads lowered, occasionally patting each other on the arm. Not a very excited crowd, which was the first positive notion Daniel had observed thus far. The last thing he wanted to see was a bunch of over-zealous, happy-go-lucky conventioneers, drunk on their own sobriety.

A fog of cigarette smoked hung suspended above them all, and while Daniel walked through the crowd of cheap suits and tight jeans, he realized nothing inside the room could touch him. Nothing they had to say would make an impact. It was all a mistake, and he was certain he'd leave here feeling vindicated.

A woman, her face pocked with acne scars, appeared at Daniel's side. He glanced at her, wondering if there was something she needed. She remained quiet, holding a few pieces of paper in her hand and just stood there.

"Can I help you?" Daniel asked, pushing his glasses closer to his face.

"You're new," she said, shuffling the papers, brightly colored and oddly shaped.

"And?"

She pressed the papers into Daniel's hand and brushed the bangs out of her eyes. "I thought…" she said, darting her head toward the front of the room, to the back, and then to Daniel again. She drew in a breath and pointing to the papers, she said, "When I was new, these helped."

Daniel looked down at the papers. Affirmations and emoticons. Great… "Yeah, well…" he muttered.

"Sometimes finding the right words isn't that…"

Daniel nodded, letting her off the hook, and hoping she'd give up and go away.

The woman scratched the back of her head and coughed. "I'm glad you're…um…"

Daniel lifted the papers, shook them a bit, and forced one corner of his mouth into a smile. "Thank you."

"You've taken the first step, you know."

"Oh?"

"We all need to… Everyone needs a first time."

"What makes you think this is my first time?"

"I don't know. You kinda look like it's your first time."

"Hmm."

"Anyhow, I just wanted to…"

"Yeah. Well. Thanks again."

"Um, sure…" The young woman gave him a shy smile then scuttled away, leaving Daniel with a scramble of multi-colored papers, all of which he knew he'd deposit in a trash can at the soonest possible moment.

"Why don't we get started?" a man suddenly at the dais said. Coffee cups were filled, people straggled in hushed tones to their seats, and Daniel shoved the papers into his coat pocket. He waited until the last of the assembled people were in place before taking a chair at the far back of the room. "Welcome to the Colorado Springs Community Center and to this meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous." Daniel slid further down in his chair, raked a hand through his hair, all the while trying to ignore the strange mingling of fear and surrealism churning within him. "This meeting is open to AA members and to other individuals who are concerned about their personal recovery."

Great, Daniel mused. Now I'm recovering from something I don't even have. Waste of time…

"My name is Dave, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Dave," the amassed gathering droned in unison. Daniel, caught off guard, found himself looking around the room, wondering who had directed the group.

"Will you join me for a moment of silence, followed by the Serenity Prayer?" Dave said, taking a sip of his coffee, eyeing the crowd over the rim of his cup. Row by row, each person bowed his or her head, some nodded in affirmation and others ran hands through tussled hair. The muffled room gave way to only the sounds of cars hissing by outside the building. Beads of sweat dappled the back of Daniel's neck. Never having been a follower of any organized religion, the thought that he, a staunch guard against forced acquiescence, would simply go along with the others and…and pray—no, this was beyond reasonable. It was, in fact, placed at the top of his list of reasons for leaving this place. Sooner, rather than later.

"God," Dave began, his voice soft and reverential, "grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…"

_Like being at this meeting,_ Daniel thought.

"…the courage to change the things I can…"

_Like my job._

"And the wisdom to know the difference."

_I know exactly what I need to know, and what's the difference, anyhow?_

"Who would like to read the Preamble tonight?" asked Dave. Chairs scratched against the floor, throats were cleared, and finally the young woman who had given Daniel the reading material stood up. She walked to the front of the room, made her way to the podium and took a nervous look out toward the audience.

"Um, Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and, um, hope with each other," she said, keeping her eyes fixed to the paper in her hands, "that they may solve their common problem and help each…help others to recover from alcoholism." She paused there, and Daniel could almost hear her counting off the requisite seconds to fulfill the meaningful silence portion of the evening.

Daniel found his mind wandering back to why he'd decided to show up at this meeting in the first place. Okay, so he'd blacked out that one time. So he'd had a little scare the other night, but so what? He hadn't been doing anything wrong, in fact, the only thing he was guilty of that night was driving a little _too_ carefully.

Maybe he was just doing this to make a point, to validate that there was nothing wrong with him. Maybe he'd even stay for the duration of the meeting, just in case. What the hell? It was, if nothing else, a chance to observe another cross section of humanity.

Was it _still_ quiet? Had the entire meeting stopped while he was busy pondering this fate? Had he blacked out? Again? When he glanced up at the young woman, her eyes darted back to the paper. Daniel was quite sure she had been looking at him.

_Great, just what I need. An alcoholic with a crush on me…_

"The only requirement for membership," she began again, and Daniel felt himself tuning out, "is a desire to stop drinking," she said, punching the last two words.

_Who is she trying to convince?_

Daniel rubbed at the muscles tightening in his neck and while he did, the woman droned on and on, and Daniel gave it his best shot not to hear one single word. This had been a mistake, he decided. He didn't need to be here anymore than he needed an excuse to get up and leave. It was glaringly obvious, especially having to sit among actual drunks, that he didn't meet the requirements. He was too smart to be an alcoholic. He was too successful. He was, after all, the preeminent scholar on Egyptian archeology, both in this world and many others. He'd seen things and done things these people couldn't even conjure in their worst nightmares, and even so he soldiered on. Soldiered on. He soldiered on, all right. And he had an apartment full of dead soldiers in his platoon.

The macabre metaphor for his stash of bottles brought a smile to his face.

"…primary purpose is to stay sober and help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety."

_Yeah, you go ahead and have fun with that…_

He had just set his feet to stand and try to leave without drawing too much attention to himself when the woman closed the folder and stepped away from the podium. He'd allow her to sit, and then he'd make his escape. Daniel watched her scuffle all the way back to her chair. He even managed a tight smile when she peeked his way. He began to stand up when another woman took the podium. She was dressed in expensive clothes, but the fatigue on her face—dark smudges, puffy eyes and dull skin—spoke to something very different than the affluent life for which she dressed. Finding himself once again fascinated by this latest cross section of the culture, Daniel decided that it wouldn't hurt to stay a few more minutes.

"I'm Anita, and I'm an alcoholic," she said, her words harshly spilling out like an overturned bucket of nails.

"Hi, Anita."

"I've been sober for…" she began, her attention drawn to something she held tight in her palm, and when her hand opened, she showed a fluorescent orange key chain to the group. "Six months."

The accomplishment garnered polite applause, and Daniel felt compelled to join in, even if he thought six months was nothing compared to the months and years he went without a drink. Point number 563 in the "I'm not an alcoholic" column. Nice clothes or not, Daniel felt his attention waning. _Maybe she's done now,_ he thought. Unfortunately, she was not. Anita took a deep breath and threw her head back. At first Daniel thought she was going to faint, and so he watched with a strange fascination. When she raked her hands through her hair and sighed, Daniel knew she was going to do much worse—lecture.

"One year ago, I was selling over three-quarters of a million dollars a month in real estate. I had a home. Two homes, actually. I had a car and a great SUV. I also had a quart of gin-a-day drinking habit. I was still selling and making my numbers every month, but it wasn't enough, you know?" she said, which earned her appreciative nods and affirmatives. "Anyhow, six months later, I had lost all my friends. Oh, I made new friends. We've all made those new friends, haven't we?" Heads bobbed. Daniel glanced around confused. "Friends like Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Heinie, Bloody Mary—the list, we know, goes on and on. Our new friends also include the bartenders at the bars we habituate. My first clue that I was an alcoholic was when Terrence, my favorite bartender, didn't have to ask what I'd have." She laughed, and Daniel rolled his eyes. "I should have also known I was an alcoholic when Terrance would call a cab for me at the end of the night and not have to ask my address. When Terrance banned me from the bar, then I knew there was a problem. Of course it was Terrance's problem, and not mine, but there was a problem."

Daniel considered Sam's problem with his drinking, and was not at all comforted by the fact that he had something in common with Anita.

"Long story short, when I was fired by three clients in one month, I blamed the clients for being impossible. My boss—I can't believe I put my boss in this position—my boss supported me. When I was sued by a client for breech of contract, my boss fired me. Still—not my problem.

"The job suffers last. I'd read that, I'd heard that, I'd been told that. Actually, the credit rating suffers last. I've lost one home, my car, my car insurance, my driver's license… And even so, I wasn't ready to admit I was an alcoholic." Anita paused, and when Daniel thought she might break out in tears, she instead began to laugh. "We all have our breaking point. Mine was when I gained twenty pounds, and my trainer at the gym, who really didn't want to work with me at all because apparently I'd shown up drunk a few times, sat me down and told me that my weight gain was due to all the drinking. I think I swore at him a few times, and then he called me a fucking lush, and I threw a water bottle at him, and they revoked my membership. I remember crying in the cab that I couldn't lose weight if I didn't have a gym, and in my grief, I had the cab drive me to the wine shop. I reached into my jeans for a couple bucks, and my hand got stuck. I was fat! I left crying, and went directly to my doctor's office, who sent me to an out-patient program. That was six months ago. And one key chain." Again, the applause broke out, and Anita blushed. "The point is, we all find our personal breaking point. Even though mine may seem superficial and vain, it got me here. So, anyhow, I'm an alcoholic," she said, nodding, and then added, "but I'm also twenty-five pounds lighter and back in a new gym." Laughter and pride spilled from her mouth, and Daniel had a premonition that she'd lose her sobriety as soon as injured herself on an elliptical machine.

With that, Daniel quickly decided he had observed more than his fair share of humanity and that he was more than ever convinced he was not an alcoholic. Daniel stood up, tore a hand through his hair, noticing that he finally had a clear path to the door.

"We have a new person, it seems," said Dave, standing at the dais. "Welcome. The floor is yours."

Daniel looked around, wide-eyed. _Is he talking to me?_

When Dave locked eyes with him and motioned for him to step forward, Daniel knew he'd missed his chance to escape.

"Yeah, all right. Whatever…" With hands firmly in his pockets, Daniel made his way to the podium. He lifted the microphone and looked out over the congregants. Lowered the mike. He hated the things. Always had. He batted it aside and began.

"Um, hello."

"Hello."

Daniel scowled at the crowd. What was it he was supposed to say next? "Okay, well, my name is Da…Dennis, and I'm an alcoholic—"

"Hi, Dennis."

"—or so they say," he added. That caused a stir. Daniel shifted his weight and threw caution and care to the wind. "Yeah, so I'm here because…well, because I have some… friends. Not… not friends like you mentioned, more like… family, but anyhow, these, um, friends seem to think I have a problem. See," he said, finding anger and bitterness were churning inside his gut, providing the necessary fuel for a full on rant, "Once in a while, I like to drink. I do. I like the taste of it; I like how it makes me feel; I like the sound the ice makes in the glass; I like the glasses; I like the bottles, and I like twisting the top off; I like…I even like the color of it." He paused, his mouth watering with the thought of a drink he so badly wanted and would find so quickly as soon as he could wrap this up.

He looked around the room, some people were staring at him, and others were nodding, which angered him further. "So, how exactly does that make me an alcoholic? I only ask because apparently my so-called friends think those are the exact qualifications that set me into the category of alcoholic. You, you're alcoholics," he said, waving a hand out over the assembled masses. "I mean, you willingly ascribe to that, right? And good for you. Really, that's…that's great you're here, but…"

Daniel saw the hurt on some of their faces, and, never having enjoyed offending people, he eased off the edge in his voice and tried to explain. "But…but, it's not me. I've known addiction. Known _of _addiction, that is, but…" He shook his head and shoved his glasses up his nose. "I… I'm sorry," he said quietly, dropping his head. "I'm sorry. I think I've wasted your time." He stepped away from the podium and, without thinking, waved.

The emoticon woman, sitting on the aisle, sprang from her seat. Daniel diverted his path and slipped past the front row of seats, rushing for the door. An odd, irrational fear overtook him. That if he stayed in this room, he'd catch it—this disease—and then he _really_ would be an alcoholic. He nearly ran out the door of the center and into the chilled night air. He nearly tripped running down the cracked stairs and then halfway up the sidewalk, he stopped. He just stood there a moment, taking in deep gulps of arctic air, his heart pounding.

He looked around him and the street was silent and empty. And across the street, thankfully, there it stood. His one true friend. His favorite bar. Of course it would be this bar, and of course it would be waiting for him, ready to greet him. Just like an old friend. He gratefully headed towards it.

He swung the heavy, scraped door open, and the sounds of the bar embraced him. Followed by the smoke. Followed by the immediate cessation of tension through his shoulders. He sat down at an open table and felt as though he could finally breathe. The waitress appeared at his side, and before he could speak, she slapped a cocktail napkin in front of him.

"Thought I wasn't going to see you tonight," she said, adjusting her bra strap. "Whiskey, straight up?"

"Yeah, thank you. Whiskey, straight up," Daniel said, nodding. He took a deep breath and slouched back in his chair.

---SG1---

If they asked, Daniel was simply going to tell them he had lost his glasses and could only find his prescription sunglasses. But only if they asked, otherwise he was going to wear the dark glasses for as long as his hangover lasted, which by experience, he knew was another couple hours. Of course, the fact that he'd only had three hours of sleep the night before, interrupted briefly by the need to puke his guts out, didn't exactly qualify as a restful night.

_Oh, yeah, gonna be a good day…_

By some miracle, he was able to navigate the floors and halls of the mountain without having to run into any close associates. Those people who only knew him by name didn't know him well enough to ask questions, and Daniel saw this as one more really good reason not to meet new people. His lifelong mantra of "less is more" where friends were concerned seemed to be holding true.

As soon as he walked into his office, he checked the docket—no off-world activity for the day. _There is a god_… he thought with exhausted gratitude. Meeting with the oversight committee at 1300. _Okay, not a benevolent god_… Dinner at O'Malley's with the committee at 1800. _But a god with a sense of timing_…

So, he thought, plopping himself into his desk chair, he had just under five hours to get rid of his hangover, get some sleep, shower, eat something that might possibly stay in his stomach. Or…

He remembered finding his bottle of muscle relaxants in his kitchen earlier in the week, and if he remembered correctly, he had placed them in his coat pocket. He patted down the breast pockets, searched the inner pockets, and pushed his hands into his outer pockets. No pills, but something much more disturbing.

"Oh, for God's sake," he muttered, fishing out the pamphlets and notes the scary woman from the night before had given him.

"Daniel? You busy?" Sam said as she opened the door and stepped uninvited into his office.

Daniel's head shot up, and a bolt of pain crashed against his skull. "Do we not knock anymore?" he groaned.

"Have we ever?" Sam asked, flipping on the remaining bank of lights.

Daniel shielded his face from the lights, squinting. "Do you mind?"

"Rough night?" Sam said without much sympathy, and in her voice, Daniel could hear the insinuation.

"Did you need something?" he snapped.

"Yikes. I guess it was," she said, "a tough night, I mean." Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, she gave him an appraising look that further escalated Daniel's irritation. "What did you end up doing? Not that I couldn't guess."

_There it was,_ he thought. A little sooner than it usually came out, however. Daniel crumpled the papers, and in doing so, he realized that he held in his hand the one thing that just might shut her up.

"Ask me how I'm feeling, Sam," he said as he rifled through the collected pamphlets, "and shut the door."

"Okay," she said, closing the door then leaned once more against it, arms folded over her chest. "So, Daniel, how are you feeling?"

With a dramatic flourish, Daniel held up the emoticon sheet and looked over the rim of his glasses. "Oh, let's just see, shall we? Am I happy?" he mocked, peering at the smiley face on the top row. "No, not happy. Am I sad? Nah, I wouldn't say so. How about… Not really sure what that face is supposed to express. It says nervous, but does that look like nervous to you?" he asked, turning the yellow paper toward Sam.

"What…where…"

"Here it is!" he said in mock triumph, pointing at the face with a 'V' over the eyes and a down-turned mouth signifying a frown. "Angry. Grrr. Annngrrrryyy." He scowled, imitating the simplistic expression. "I _am _angry. See it? I look just like that, don't I?"

Sam cocked her head to the side, fed up with Daniel's sarcasm, of late. "What the hell is that?"

"What? _This?"_ Daniel asked, waving the emoticon sheet at her. "Or do you mean these?" And with that, he threw the other sheets in her direction. Sam flinched, and the papers spun and floated to the ground. Daniel crumpled the yellow piece of paper in his hand and pitched it across the room.

Sam's attention settled on one of the pamphlets and she picked it up from the floor. "A Newcomer Asks: FAQs from those just entering AA," she read, then looked at him questioningly.

"I went to a meeting," he said, anticipating her reaction with unkind relish.

Sam couldn't help gawking at him. "You what? When? Last night?"

Daniel ran a shaking hand over his mouth, his stomach churning with acid and nerves. "It was really fascinating, Sam. You would have loved it. They all welcomed me—well, not all… Those who still had enough dignity to be able to look someone in the eye welcomed me. Nothing like a roomful of sober sycophants, you know what I mean?" Sam could do nothing but stare, open-mouth at him. "When I walked in, a woman offered me these…those…" He flipped his hand toward the fallen literature, at once acknowledging and dismissing them. "She said I had taken the first step. The first step."

"You _have,"_ Sam offered, nodding and looking proud of him.

"Uh-huh," Daniel said, jutting his chin, looking away from her. "Okay, well, here's a question: The first step toward what?"

"Toward sobriety."

"Yeah, uh-huh…" Daniel ran his thumb over his chapped upper lip. "Well said, by the way. You sound like you've been to a meeting yourself. Good, good." He nodded a few times, and felt the ripple of heat running through his chest and arms. Another couple minutes, and he suspected that he was going to be sick again. "Well, anyhow, I went. Happy?"

"Are you?"

"I won't go back," he said, looking her full in the eye and daring her to challenge him. His stomach churned and he tried shallow breathing, anything to stave off the nausea. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead in his hand. "And I'll tell you why. Because I'm not one of them. Those people… they… they're sick, they're genetically pre-disposed, or…or… whatever, but I'm not. I'm not like them."

"Daniel—"

"Like I told you – you wouldn't understand," he said, keeping his eyes closed, "I just… go through these cycles where I drink for a while, and then I quit."

"You don't just drink. You binge, and that's where the abuse comes in."

"And how exactly do you know that?"

"Because I've done a little research myself," Sam countered. "And what I see in front of me is not the Daniel I know and love."

"Oh, please," he said, rubbing his eyes.

"I do love you, Daniel. I know you don't think so right now, and I know you think I'm just being a bitch—"

"Yeah, I do," he muttered.

"I have no problem with that." Sam bent over his chair, braced her hands on the armrests, and came face to face with her friend. "Not a day goes by, Daniel, that I don't worry about you. Not one damn day when I don't try to figure out what the hell is happening to you and how I can fix it. And believe me," she said with a bitter, unpleasant sounding laugh, "in these last few months, I would have loved to just let you go and be done with this, but I can't do that."

"Actually," he said, looking her straight in the eye again, "you can."

Sam yanked hard at the chair, jolting him. "Dammit, Daniel!"

"Do you mind?" Daniel protested, his stomach roiling, and a certain pressure began to build up in his throat. He leaned as far back in his chair as he could, dug in his feet and shoved away from her, forcing her to let go of the armrests.

"You bet I mind!" she shouted, furious and not backing up an inch. "I mind that my friend, my _best_ friend has become an absolute mess—"

"I think you're a being little over-dramatic—"

"—and he's just too stupid or proud, or whatever to ask for help!" she shouted, inches from his face.

"Sam… I don't need to hear this anymore," Daniel nearly pleaded. In truth, he hoped that she'd understand that what he really meant was he was no longer _able_ to listen anymore. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried swallowing back the bile in his throat. He began breathing shallowly.

"Daniel, this has gone on too long. You have—"

Daniel's eyes flew open. He batted her away and scrambled out of his seat, his chin trembling, his lips pinched tight together.

"Oh, my God," Sam gasped. She reached for the wastebasket and shoved it under his chin just in time. Daniel grabbed it with one hand and turning his back to her, he braced himself with the other hand against the wall while his stomach heaved and heaved.

Sam stood behind him, silent and rubbing his back. It was over quickly because he didn't have much in his stomach. He put the wastebasket back on the floor and shoved it away with his foot. Sam grabbed the box of tissues off his desk and handed a wad of them to him. Daniel shakily wiped his mouth, then his eyes. He blew his nose and spit into the trash. Not once did he look at Sam. He couldn't.

"I take it you didn't go right home after the meeting," she said, quietly, just loud enough for it to penetrate his senses. Daniel buried his face into his outstretched arm, fatigue outweighing any attempt at subterfuge. He stayed in that position, his back to Sam, humiliated that he as much as handed her a smoking gun in her growing case against him.

"Daniel, this has got to stop," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder. "Can't you see how bad off you are?"

"It's not what you think," he managed to say. "I have a little case of the stomach flu."

"Oh, bullshit!" she yelled, wrenching his arm. "I can smell the alcohol on you right now."

"It's not…alcohol," he protested, straightening up, but still unable to meet her eyes. "It's…it's," he tried, but he was simply too damn tired of lying.

"It's what? Grape bubblegum? Aftershave? Herbal tea? What's the excuse this time, Daniel?" she spit out, exhausted by his seeming inexhaustible excuses.

"Just go away, Sam. Please."

"Not until you promise me you'll stop drinking. Right now."

"Okay, fine," he said, too drained to fight anymore. "I promise. Will you go away now?"

"Good," Sam said curtly. "Then you won't have any problem going without drinks tonight. You _do_ remember our—"

"Yes, yes. Oversight committee. O'Malley's." The pounding behind his eyes began in earnest at that moment. "Yes. I remember."

"Good. I'll be watching you, Daniel, and I swear to God if you so much as pick up someone else's drink to move it out of the way, I'm going to be all over you."

"Is that right?"

"You bet." Sam took one more look at him—unshaved, unkempt and in desperate need of some sleep. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. "Someday you're going to explain all of this to me."

"You'll be waiting a long time because there's nothing to explain," Daniel said quietly.

Sam gave him another look of wearying patience, kicked his chair out of her path and strode toward the door. "Here's the thing, Daniel," she said pausing with her hand on the door handle. "If you want to kill yourself, go ahead, but you're going to have to do it while I watch. Is that what you want?" She turned her head to gauge his reaction to that.

Daniel didn't want to give her the satisfaction, didn't want to let on that she was getting to him, and so he said nothing.

"Because I will," she said, her voice wavering. "If you're going to destroy your life, you're going to have to do it knowing I'm watching you. That's how much I love you, you stupid son of a bitch." Sam was out the door before the first tear fell.

Daniel slumped back against the wall and slid to the floor. He wiped a hand across his face, his eyes burning, his entire body aching. He spotted the AA literature near his foot. He kicked it out of the way and slammed his elbow into the wall behind him. He raked both hands through his tussled hair and pulled until the pain counteracted the agony inside his mind. Once more, he found himself asking how he had let it go this far.

_This is madness, husband, _he heard deep in his memory. He tugged even harder at his hair and couldn't hold back a groan of pain.

"I'm sorry, Sha're. I promise, Sha're." And again he groaned, but this time, it came out as something more like a cry.

He finally dragged himself to his feet, locked his door and pulled his chair back over to his desk. He slumped down, rested his head on his folded arms, closed his eyes and within a few minutes, he thankfully fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

---SG1---

None of them wanted to do it, but like most things in the life of the SGC, it was one of those necessary evils. And it didn't come much more evil than the annual meet-and-greet social hour with the new oversight committee. Every year they had to do this—sit for hours on hours defending their program, followed by the obligatory evening dinner and drinks. If there was one thing Jack hated, and his list was getting longer every day, it was pretending to enjoy time with bureaucrats, while eating finger food, in his class A uniform. Yeah, good times…

"As I was saying, Colonel O'Neill," continued Senator Lawrence from Kansas, "I've been a staunch supporter of our boys in uniform for years."

"When you say boys, you mean men, right?" Jack asked, tired of the "I've been a supporter, but I'm going to screw you anyhow" speech he had to listen to every year.

"Well, yes. Yes. I've been an avid supporter of our…men in uniform—"

"And women," said Jack, touching the man's lapel.

"And women. Great respect for women."

"What's not to respect?" he said, looking around for the waiter.

"Certainly. As I was saying—"

"Staunch, avid, great supporter."

"Right, I am a…"

"Keen, passionate, enthusiastic, eager…"

"Yes, all those."

"Good to hear," Jack announced, slapping the man on the back and summarily moving along.

Sam, having heard the conversation, smiled and moved along, as well. She checked her watch—they'd been there for forty-five minutes and had another hour and a quarter to go before they could offer their goodbyes. That is before she, General Hammond, Colonel O'Neill and the other colonels could leave. Daniel, for whatever was today's reason, hadn't shown up. Maybe he went home to sleep. He hadn't been the cheeriest at their meeting, but he'd contributed. She hoped he was late because he was thinking about what she had told him that morning. She hoped he was late because he had been caught up at the SGC, instead of what she had come to know was his pattern lately.

"Come on, Daniel. Do the right thing." Sam looked at her watch again, willing him to come through the door.

"Carter," said Jack, startling her from her thoughts, "have you seen Daniel yet?"

"No, sir, but I'm sure he'll be here any minute." She could hardly suppress the expression of dubiousness that surely must have crossed her face.

"It must be nice to have one's own time zone."

"Yes, sir. I'm sure he just got caught up at work," she said, lying for Daniel. Again.

"That's a nice bit of CDA, there, Carter," Jack said, bouncing on the toes of his shining dress shoes, looking over the assorted dignitaries and other monkey-suited wannabees.

"CDA, sir?" Sam asked.

Jack took a long draw on his drink, put the empty on the table, and over-articulated each word as he said, "Covering Daniel's Ass." He didn't bother to wait for Sam's reaction. Didn't really care. He simply wiped his hand on the cocktail napkin, crumpled it and tossed it into the empty glass.

"Yes, sir," Sam managed, and wondered exactly what the colonel suspected. Maybe it was time to ask. Sam turned toward her CO, but Jack abruptly stepped away from her, hand in pocket, barely concealing his disdain for the event.

And, if asked, it wasn't just the matter of the reason for Daniel's absence that irked her. There was a great deal of resentment at having to pick up the slack of the extra gaggle of congressmen and women who cackled about the hall, bandying their assorted beliefs and election platforms. For whatever reason, they never found her all that interesting, and she certainly felt the same about them. Daniel was the one they always wanted to talk to, although lately, she felt compelled to warn anyone to whom he was about to speak that they may be disappointed. The great Doctor Daniel Jackson was a little off his game lately. She was ready to step outside and call Daniel on his cell when the great one himself sauntered through the door.

The minute Daniel entered the room, Colonel Washburn pulled him aside and introduced him to Senator Oblansky from some state that escaped Sam. She watched the meeting, watched the way Daniel stayed close enough to hear, but not too close, watched Daniel's practiced way of speaking out of the side of his mouth, his head turned slightly. Next, she thought, he'd motion to his…Yup, he was telling the senator he had a cold, that his nose was all stuffed up, and he didn't want to get too close.

"Damnit, Daniel," Sam muttered. The senator offered his hand to Daniel, and Daniel leaned over to accept it, and just like that the meeting was over. Sam decided it was time for another kind of meeting—a come to Jesus sort of meeting.

Daniel noticed movement coming toward him, looked again and saw Sam marching his way.

"Oh, Christ, here we go," he said to himself, smoothing down his tie so he didn't have to look at her.

Sam got within six feet of him, and stopped. She glared at Daniel, grabbed a waiter walking by and whispered something to him with a smile. The young man nodded, and Sam turned back to Daniel. He glanced up and caught her eye. He scowled seeing the obvious displeasure in her expression and further loosened the knot in his tie. Indignation began to steel his spine, and Daniel stood firm where he was.

"It's 1945, Daniel," Sam said, through her teeth.

"Nice to see you, too, Major Carter."

"We started at 1800, Daniel. Six."

"Yeah, well, I had things to—"

"Stop it," she snapped. She stood next to his side, keeping an eye on anyone who might be taking in the scene. "You look like hell."

"It's nice to know you care."

"I thought we had this discussion, Daniel."

"Actually, the way I remember it," Daniel began, "you spouted off about something, and I tried to explain—"

"Spare me, Daniel."

Daniel wrapped his arms across his chest and braced himself for Sam's wrath. He knew it was coming. It was a chance he knew he'd have to take showing up late to the meet and greet, having finished off his last drink at O'Malley's bar only moments before entering the private room. On the one hand, it was distressful getting caught not-quite drunk (however, the possibility of topping off the night and soon at the well-stocked open bar were looking very promising). But on the other hand, it was a relief that he didn't have to pretend around Sam.

Sam gave the room one more scan, and then faced her disheveled friend. "How soon after the meeting did you have your first drink?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, did you make it to the bar, or did you stop at a liquor store on your way here?" Her icy stare bore into Daniel, and he had a hard time meeting her focus. It disarmed him to think how close she was getting to the truth.

"I don't…really need to—"

"Or maybe you didn't make it out of the mountain at all."

Daniel flinched under her accusatorial glare. How could she know? He had been careful. "I…" he croaked, unsure of what was to follow next.

"Isn't it enough that I had to watch you puke all over yourself this morning? Huh? And now, in front of the brass and all the… Congressman Mantel," she suddenly interjected, offering her hand to a short, balding man who had appeared at her side. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Most certainly," he said, wrapping his hands around hers, insinuating himself between Daniel and Sam. With the congressman's back to him, Daniel took it as a chance to skulk off in the opposite direction.

"Major Carter," stated the congressman from Rhode Island, touching Sam's elbow. "I was very impressed with your presentation today. You know, I'm something of a science nut myself." Sam nodded to the man, offered a perfunctory smile, and kept her eye on where Daniel was headed. "As a matter of fact, I think the youth of America would do well to learn more about the men and women in the armed forces who use their education to make the United States of America the great power that it is and will continue to be."

"Oh, yes. I couldn't agree more," Sam said, pulling her hand away from the politician.

"As you know, I've long been a supporter of the—"

"Will you excuse me?" Sam said, seeing the waiter walking toward her.

"Oh. Well. Certainly," said the congressman. Sam smiled at the man and intercepted the waiter, who was looking around the area for the major. Sam took both drinks off his tray and thanked him. She put a bead on Daniel, and sidled up to him, much to Daniel's chagrin. "Follow me," she snapped, and motioned for Daniel to follow her. When she found an inconspicuous corner, Sam offered him one of the drinks.

"Here," she said, "drink this."

Daniel blinked at her. "Okay, well, now I'm confused. Were you or were you not just—"

"I can smell the alcohol on you, and unless you want the colonel to find out—"

"Find out what?" he said, challenging her.

"That you're drunk, and you didn't do your drinking here."

"I'm _not_ drunk," he hissed.

"Look," she said, lowering her voice, "the colonel knows you're late. What's he going to think when he…when _everyone _in the room smells the alcohol on you?"

Daniel snorted. "So what? Look around you – _everyone's_ drinking."

"It's coming out of your skin."

Daniel lifted his arm and smelled his jacket sleeve.

"Daniel, drink," she said, shoving the drink in his hand. Daniel, realizing she was probably right, took the drink and sipped it. "So," she began again, a little too loud and much friendlier, "after I checked the transverse ptolemetry of the abductors, I realized, 'Yes, we've done it.' And do you know how I knew to check the ptolemetry?"

Daniel's face pinched with confusion. He caught a glimpse of the Florida congressman moving toward them and understood Sam's subterfuge. She jabbed toward Daniel's chest and in the process spilled her drink on his lapel, a calculated move. When she moved in to help him clean his jacket, she whispered, "You owe me, you asshole."

Daniel, an half-empty glass in his hand and a wet jacket, stared at her and felt a chill rush through him.

"Doctor Jackson," the Floridian said, reaching out his hand.

"Uh, yes. And you are…"

"This is Congressman Margolies," Sam said, wiping Daniel's chest. "I'm so sorry, Daniel."

"No harm," Daniel said, eyeing her sidelong.

"Oh, these get togethers always produce huge dry cleaning bills," Congressman Margolies said. "So, what was the topic? It must have been a good one."

"I was just discussing with Doctor Jackson the latest ptolemetric transverse quandaries that we regularly encounter," she said, and on cue, the congressman's eyes glazed over. "You see…"

"Well, keep up the good work," he said, and was off.

"Nice work," Daniel mentioned, never taking his eyes off the retreating politician.

Sam spun around, her back to the milling crowd. She ground out each word as she said, "I'm getting tired of covering for you, Daniel."

Daniel darted a worried glance over her shoulder. Sam followed his gaze and nearly cursed under her breath.

"Which begs the question, covering _what_ exactly?" Jack asked, leaning slightly over Sam's shoulder. "Daniel. Nice of you to show up. What's with the jacket?"

Daniel pulled the lapel away from his chest and inspected it, gave it a good whiff. "Oh, um… it's wet."

"I spilled my drink on him, sir," Sam interjected before Daniel had a chance to lie, her icy stare never wavering from him. Jack eyed Daniel's jacket, clucked his tongue against his cheek and stared down the younger man.

"Uh-huh," he said, stepping between his 21C and Daniel. "Daniel, I think we need to talk."

"Jack, all we do all day is _talk,"_ Daniel protested, but he knew Jack didn't have discussing the subtleties of the Stargate Program in mind. "Is this… uh, something we can discuss here?"

"Nah," Jack shrugged, making damn sure his actions came across as nonchalant and friendly. He slid his hands in his pocket, dug a heel into the well-worn carpeting, lowered his gaze and said, "Nah, I think this is something we should probably discuss outside."

"Outside."

"Yeah. Outside. Let's say, oh, in five minutes we meet out by the pool. Got it?" he said, checking his watch.

"This is all very cloak and dagger, even for you, Jack," Daniel said, his smile lit up by sarcasm. Sam felt the hairs on the back of her neck quill, and she looked away.

"Yeah," Jack laughed, a falsely radiant smile pasted on his lips. He reached forward, took hold of Daniel's suit jacket and buttoned it. "This is probably not the time for you to be glib, Daniel," he said, patting down the lapels on Daniel's jacket. He leaned in and said, "Yeah, probably better for you just to shut up and do what you're told." Jack ended with a fraternal pat on the shoulder.

Daniel bristled with incredulity. "Excuse me?"

"Now, I know that will be difficult for you, especially in your current state, but reach into that brain of yours and try, TRY to find the good sense for which you're famous."

"Who the fu—"

"Daniel," Sam snapped, stopping him with a hand to his chest. She closely observed the staring match between Daniel and Jack, and could easily sense the anger building up in her CO. "He'll be there, sir."

"See, now _that's_ what I like," Jack told Daniel, nodding, straightening his frame. "Five minutes." And he turned to greet the congresswoman from Wisconsin.

Daniel batted away Sam's hand and struggled to unbutton his jacket. He shivered while beads of sweat accumulated to form a river down his spine.

"My God, Daniel," Sam said, shaking her head.

He rolled his eyes and raked a hand through his hair. "So what do you think? You figure I have time for a drink before I have to meet _the boss_?"

"Don't you do this," Sam warned.

"Of _course_ I do," Daniel said ignoring her and answering his own question. "There's _always_ time for a drink." With a snide grin, he sidestepped Sam and reached out for a passing waiter's tray. He grabbed a full glass in a sloppy hand, forcing the waiter to quickly re-establish his balance. Daniel gulped the drink while staring at Sam, then slammed the empty glass on the nearest table, the ice cubes clattering. "What the hell?" he said, with an exaggerated shrug and laughed. "If I'm gonna be _accused_ of being a drunk, then I may as well _be_ drunk at the time, right?"

He realized that a few of the attending politicians' eyes were on him. He saw the chagrin in some eyes, the disgust in others, and the pity in still more eyes. His laughter died. He sniffed away his indignation, and stormed out of the convention hall.

Down the oak-paneled hall, under the brassy chandelier, across the marble-floored foyer, and out the door. A blast of ambient street noise caused Daniel to stumble back a few steps. He regained his footing, and continued on to his car in the side parking lot. He wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve and licked his lips.

_Too close for comfort,_ he thought. Too close to being caught by Jack. No, he'd go home, and in the morning he'd tell Jack that he had no intentions of meeting him anywhere to discuss anything, under the circumstances. Or something like that. He was pretty sure in the morning he'd be able to come up with something much more obfuscated and full of righteous indignation.

He reached the parking lot, and stopped. Where the hell had he parked? A panic settled in as he thought that maybe he hadn't even parked in this lot, but if it hadn't been this lot, which lot was it? He turned, looking one way, then the other way.

"It's over here."

Jack's drawled voice stopped him. Daniel ground his teeth together and cursed in numerous languages. With nothing to do but confront his _boss_, Daniel made his way over to Jack who was leaning against the hood of his car. Daniel thought that if he could somehow get around Jack without having to speak to him, he'd be able to start the engine and drive away. He reached into his right jacket pocket for his keys, tried the left; patted down his pants…

"Looking for these?" Jack called out, jangling Daniel's set of keys.

Daniel stopped and stared at Jack with indignation. "Those are mine."

"That's good, because I found them in your pocket."

"So you _stole_ them?"

"No," Jack said, tossing Daniel's keys in the air and catching them, over and over. "I confiscated them. Something about how friends don't let friends commit felonies."

Furious, Daniel marched toward him and snatched at the keys, missing them and stumbling a little Jack caught his shoulder and righted him.

Daniel squirmed away from Jack, ripping his shoulder back. "Let go of me."

"Oh, relax," Jack said, then studied. "What? You'd rather I let you fall?"

"You were s'posed to meet me at the pool," Daniel reminded Jack.

"Yeah," Jack said. "Seems we're both directionally challenged."

"Give me my keys."

"Give me an explanation."

"I'm not messing around, Jack! Give me my goddamn keys!"

"I'm not messing around either, Daniel." Jack's glare bore into him, and Daniel flinched under the scrutiny.

"Fine. What…what kind of an explanation do you want then?"

"Explain to me this problem—"

"Oh, for fuck's sakes!"

"—you seem to be having with—"

"The only problem I'm having is with all of you!" Daniel spluttered.

"Then we're even, Daniel, 'cause your drinking has given me a colossal problem!"

Daniel wavered in the face of such an outright statement. He hadn't thought that Jack was so on to him. He wanted to argue back. He wanted to irrefutably deny it. But all he could think to say was, "So?"

"So?" Jack replied, genuinely shocked. "That's all you got? _So?"_

"Well, what the hell do you want from me, Jack? A dissertation?"

"I want you to tell me why this is happening!" Jack yelled back, inches away from Daniel's face. "I want you to give me one—just one!—good reason why every time I see you lately, you're pissed out of your skull!"

"I don' know!" Daniel shouted, forcing a watery stare-down with Jack. "Maybe…maybe it's because I have ADD."

"What the hell kind of pile-of-shit answer is that?"

"It's true," Daniel said, pointing at Jack in order to prove his point. "I read it. People with ADD are prone to binge drinking. See? I don't have a drinking problem. I'm just…I'm just…"

"What? What are you, Daniel?" Jack asked, ready for whatever line of crap Daniel was getting ready to dish out.

"Maybe you've been right all along, Jack," Daniel began, in a moment of relative clarity. "Maybe…maybe I'm just a class-A spaz. Maybe—and you can certainly back me up here—maybe you've been right all these years, and I'm just a space cadet."

"Space monkey."

"Whatever!" Daniel yelled. Jack rushed him, and tried to stifle Daniel with a hand. Daniel swatted Jack's hand away and toppled a bit to the side. "So, you see, you were right all along, Jack. I'm a full-blown…whatever you want to call it—spaz!—and not a lush like you think I am."

"Carter thinks you're a lush. _I_ never said you were a lush."

"Yes!" Daniel said, waggling a finger at Jack. "Yes, you did!"

"I said you were a damned pain in the ass."

"Oh, nice," Daniel told him, his shoulders slumping, depleted of the fight. "Yeah, see, now that's helpful."

"Wasn't trying to be helpful."

"And… you didn't say I was… an… an idiot. You said something else, but I can't remember what now." Daniel shook his head and swiped a hand over his face. "Just give me my keys, Jack."

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen."

"What do you _want_ from me?" Daniel cried out.

"I just want you to be straight and tell me when this ends."

"Gimme my go'damn keys, Jack."

"I don't think you fully understand what's at stake here, pal."

"I'm not your pal." A breeze filtered through Daniel's hair, and he staggered a little. "Gimme my keys. Now."

"One word from me, and you're gone."

"Fine. Gimme my keys, and I'll make it easier for you," Daniel said, managing a smirk.

"Dammit, Daniel!" Jack bellowed.

"You've been looking for an excuse to get rid of me for years, Jack!" Daniel bellowed back. "Well, here's your chance. You've said it in so many words, _the SGC has no room for scientists. _Haven't you!"

"That's not true, not anymore. And keep your voice down, dammit," Jack hissed. He took a furtive glance around the parking lot and went on. "I have plenty of use for scientists. And not that you deserve any charity on my part, but you're the one who convinced me of that fact. I—in fact the entire program needs all the scientists we can get. What we don't need, Daniel," Jack said, his voice tight with anger, "is a liability." He waited for a reaction from Daniel. But there was none. Daniel just set his jaw and glared back at Jack the best he could. "I keep you on, and I'm probably just begging for things to blow up in my face."

"So fire me."

"Oh, you don't know how much I'd like to."

"Then do it," Daniel pulled a hand across his mouth. "I don't need this, Jack. You think I…I like the continuous attacks? You think it fills me with a sense of…of self-actualization to know that…that all those years of academic work I put in are used to…to…" Daniel began to wobble, and quickly spread his feet into a wider base. "…to translate…crap?"

"Crap," Jack nodded. "Yeah, see, right there. You can't even form a cohesive sentence anymore. That's how I know you've become a drunk."

"Fuck you!"

"Clue number two."

"Fine! Okay! You win! I'm drunk, but I'm not _a_ drunk. Okay?"

"Semantics, Doctor Jackson."

"Don't talk to me about semantics! You don't even know…"

"Get in the car," Jack suddenly said, grabbing Daniel by the elbow and spinning him toward the passenger door. Approaching from the hotel were most of the senators from the left of the aisle.

"Le'go of me!" Daniel shouted.

"Shut up," Jack whispered, tearing open the car door. "For all that's holy, Daniel, just shut the hell up." He shoved Daniel into the seat, not caring if he was causing the younger man injury. At forty feet, the politicians were too close for Jack's comfort. He slammed the door shut and raced to the driver's side.

"Oh, Colonel!" called out the distinguished gentleman from some Midwestern state.

"Great seein' ya, there…uh, Senator," Jack answered in reply. "Sorry to greet and run, but duty calls."

"I was simply going to ask—"

"Of course you were! Tell you what—email it to my secretary. I'll get back to you ASAP!"

Jack had the engine going and the car in drive before the man had a chance to call out one more word. Ignoring the posted exit signs, Jack sped through the entrance, flashed his ID to the booth attendant, and raced off into the streets of Colorado Springs.

"For Christ's sakes, Jack," Daniel protested, gripping the dashboard.

"Shut up, Daniel."

"Me? You're the one who—"

"Shut up, goddammit!" And to make his point, Jack slammed on the brakes, cranked the wheel, and performed a perfect 180 in the middle of the deserted street. "Shut up, you drunken son of a bitch! Just keep that mouth closed until I drop your sorry ass off at home, or I swear to God, Daniel, I'll drive you to the SGC _right now_ and have you fired."

"But—"

"Aht!"

The word "fine" poised on Daniel's lips, but something in Jack's tone registered through the alcohol, and Daniel remained silent.

Jack started driving again in stony silence. Daniel didn't say another word and just watched the passing streetlights and taillights, just listened to the drone of the engine. His chest felt tight and heavy, making it hard to breathe.

Everything was crashing down on him. Piece by piece, tumbling, crashing down, and when the last piece fell, he knew there would be no way to put it all back together again. Not this time.

The fact that he no longer cared what would happen then should have scared him, but it didn't.

* * *

--- tbc ---


	13. Reparations pt 5

Akay, a few of you have been asking for a recap, since it's been a few... uh, _years,_ since we started this sucker, so... here 'tis, in a nutshell (yah, spoilers both for the fic and for season 3):

Daniel's having a rough time coping with losing Sha're. He has a rough night where Jack has to come pick him up in an unfamiliar part of town, take him home and patch him up. What seemed to Jack and the rest of Daniel's team as a binge brought on by grief, turns out to be a much, much bigger problem. In truth, Daniel has repeated this pattern of behavior throughout most of his life, only it's finally getting more and more difficult for him to keep it under control and keep his addiction a secret. Where we left off, Sam is finally on to him but trying to protect him, Jack is suspicious and pissed off, and Teal'c...? Well, um, the big guy's around somewhere, probably looking concerned. We ended the last chapter with Daniel blowing a very important shin-dig and inciting some of that famous O'Neill temper, and things are about to escalte even further. Oy...

And, we ARE on the homestretch now, believe it or not. Probably only about 3 more longish chapters to go, so we do hope you stay tuned for that coming up very soon, and onward ho, here we go:

* * *

_"There stands the glass _

_Fill it up to the brim _

_'Til my troubles grow dim _

It's my first one today…"

Country music from a garishly lit jukebox, whose 45's flipped like a slinky of the human condition.

Daniel had decided that it was time to venture out from his usual haunts, particularly from his old favorite bar. In his line of work, it was better not to become too familiar and recognizable at any one place. Word had a tendency to get around when and where you least expected it, and after the past few days that he'd endured with Sam and Jack, getting as far away from his so-called life was only way to keep from coming completely unraveled. To forget for a little while.

And so he'd found this place, with its cheap wood paneling, faux Western decor, complete with steer horns hung over the bar itself and packed with wannabe cowboys and women in too-tight jeans and spandex tops.

The laughable irony of it all was that Daniel had never really liked bars in the first place, especially ones that played nothing but country music. It had a way of grating on his brain. It oozed of self-pity. And that twang…

Under normal circumstances, normal being way off the radar screen as of late, he would have _ran_ out of an establishment like this. But tonight… tonight it was perfect, and even the song seemed to speak to that place inside him that was just as dark and congested and false as this bar.

And he certainly would not, under normal circumstances, have ever chosen this particular woman to be dancing with. Dancing being just another abnormal choice in his world turned ironic in the extreme.

_"There stands the glass _

_That will ease all my pain _

_Make me forget your name _

_It's my first one today…"_

He'd already been through half a pack of cigarettes and after his third or fourth drink, he was beginning to hear and feel the music that underscored his own escalating self-loathing.

With his left hand wrapped around a scotch and his right hand wrapped around his cloying dance partner, Daniel found himself moving in a liquid fashion to the sounds of the singer's despair. His eyes closed, he listened to the words to a song that he had spent five dollars on in order to hear it over and over and over. He pulled the woman closer to his body, rested his chin on her shoulder, and took a sip from his glass.

_"I wonder where you are tonight _

_I wonder if you are all right _

_I wonder if you think of me _

_In my misery…"_

The young woman – _what the hell was her name again?_ he wondered – ran her hands up and down his back, twined her fingers in his hair. She began to hum the song softly and seductively in his ear.

_"There stands the glass _

_That will open the door _

_Like it once did before _

_It's my first one today…"_

If the scotch hadn't so anesthetized his body, if he hadn't been living such an anesthetized life lately, he thought he'd probably really enjoy the sensation of a woman's lips whispering at his ear, her teeth nibbling at his earlobe. His mind made the laborious journey to his groin to scout out any progress. If memory served, he thought he should be harder.

He slid his hand down to her waist; his fingers urged her hips forward. She groaned and nibbled down his neck. Another sip of scotch, and he tilted his head back, giving her a false sense of accomplishment when in truth, it was to better enjoy the slow burn of his drink.

_Two birds with one stone,_ Daniel thought, smiling a little to himself. _Good liquor and an attractive, non-alien woman is sucking on my neck. God, I'm hard as a rock, _he suddenly realized with muted relief.

He anchored his arm around her, and she responded by plastering her lips to his. He closed his eyes and her tongue slipped in his mouth. He tasted beer and cigarettes and desperation, and it tasted brilliant. This is what he needed tonight. Every night. To forget. To tune out. Tune everything out.

_"I wonder where you are tonight _

_I wonder if you are all right _

_I wonder if you think of me _

_In my misery…"_

So he kissed her with an urgency, with a need that was meant for somebody else. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and found the edge of the table to put down his drink. He wrapped her tight in his arms, and somebody else's face became clear in his memory. In Abydonian, he whispered into her mouth how he missed her. How he loved her. How he was sorry.

She twined her fingers in his hair and devoured his words, his lips, his tongue. She raised one leg and stroked it between his legs. He drew her into his hips, wanted her to feel how much he missed and loved her.

Her mouth slid from his and she grasped hold of his biceps. Daniel opened his eyes as she struggled with her breathing, a passion in her eyes that would have been unmistakable to anyone else. But to him the hazy vision of this strange woman in front of him shattered his illusion, his escape.

"I need another drink," he said, releasing her, fully intending to walk away from her, but she grabbed hold of his hand and swung him back around to face her. Daniel questioned her propriety with a look, but when she pressed up against him, trailed her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and lapped her tongue against throat, he questioned no more.

After all, what better escape was there than this? he realized. She didn't know a damn thing about him and it that just made it so much easier.

"You live around here?" she whispered into his ear, ending the proposal with a dart of her tongue.

Daniel leaned into the sensation that seemed to begin wet and hot in his ear and end hotter and fuller in his pants. "Uh, I... yeah..." he stammered, "I… I drove. My car's outside."

"Good."

"You want a... ride?"

"Oh, yeah," she said with lazy, flirtatious smile.

Daniel led her through the bar, turned back to count out what he hoped would be enough to pay for his drinks, and slapped it on the bar. As he stepped outside, struggling with his coat, the blast of cold air momentarily sobered him. The young woman latched onto his arm, leaning heavily against him and he listed a little to the side before righting himself.

"Which one is your car?" she asked while sliding her lips over his.

Daniel pointed into the parking lot. "That one," he managed around her mouth and darting tongue.

She giggled and then they both laughed on their way to his car, arm in arm, as if they were old, good friends, and not strangers seeking what only strangers can offer—anonymity and release. Daniel fumbled with the keys in his pocket, fumbled with his car door, and fumbled with his proposition to her as she slid into the passenger's seat and pulled shut the door.

"Um," Daniel said, climbing into the driver's seat, "so, where—"

Her fingers were deft and she had his pants unzipped before he was even fully settled in his seat. By the time her head was in his lap, Daniel understood that there was a certain increase in heat in his groin. And when she did take him into her mouth, he was too surprised to do anything but sit back and enjoy it.

"Oh, god," he whispered, his fingers tangling in her hair. He came much too quickly but she didn't seem to mind. They decided upon her place – Daniel's was in far too much of a state of disaster for him to even consider bring a woman there – not that he'd ever admit that, and besides, she lived closer. He figured he'd stay a little while, get home in time enough to catch a few hours sleep and he'd be fine tomorrow. Even still, his feet felt a little numb on the gas pedal and brake as he drove, but somehow, they made it there.

They stumbled inside, laughing as their limbs tangled together, as they tripped over the clothes, magazines and towels strewn on the floor. She directed him toward her unmade bed and they tugged off each other's clothes with a renewed sense of urgency. Her fingernails raked down his naked back, their mouths hungrily found one another's, he pressed tight against her, and then… that was when things came to halt. A certain part of his anatomy refused to cooperate. She laughed it off, kissed and stroked him, ground her hips against him, all to no avail. In the end, she sighed, curled up against his side and fell fast asleep, snoring a little through a clogged nose.

Mortified, his face burning, Daniel rolled onto his back and flung an arm over his head. He knew it was just because he was too tired, too drunk, but still… _for Christ's sakes._ Everything he seemed to do lately was a complete fuck-up. Not literally in this case, however. He cursed under his breath again. The bed seemed to be spinning a little, and he took a few deeps breaths in an attempt to counteract the dizziness. Something flicked in the corner of his eye, startling him, and he looked over to see a massive white cat with eyes as yellow as a Goa'uld's perched on the dresser, balefully glaring at him, twitching its tail, flexing it's claws against the wood. _Scritchscritchscritch…_

The young woman muttered something in her sleep throwing her arm over his chest, and Daniel realized that he still couldn't remember her name. _God,_ he'd gone home with a woman whose name he hadn't even bothered to learn. What the hell was the matter with him? Careful not to wake her, he slid out from her slight weight and got up from the bed. Stumbling and tripping, he had to hunt around for his clothes and all the while, the stupid cat kept staring at him. He resisted the urge to throw something at it. While he dressed, he looked at the young woman sprawled on the bed. He silently wished her well, then all but tiptoed to her front door and ensuring that the door locked securely behind him, he crept out like some thief and back into the cold night air.

As he drove home, his eyelids kept sliding shut on their own volition. Without realizing it, his chin dropped to his chest. The car veered to the right and careened over the curb. Daniel snapped awake just in time to smash into a mailbox that flew off the bolts anchoring it to the sidewalk.

"Shit!" he yelped and yanked the wheel hard to the left. His head thumped on the side window and with a screech of metal, one of the legs of the mailbox dragged along, caught under the fender then slid off. The car bumped back onto the road and he wrestled with the wheel until he got the car back under control. He let up on the gas, his heart pounding, his hands shaking. He turned the corner, thanking all the deities in the world that there wasn't much traffic at 3:40 am. He opened his window all the way, allowing the icy air to blast in and he drove home the rest of the way well under the speed limit.

He carefully pulled into his parking space, opened his car door, and shivering, he scuffed his way through the parkade. He had a moment when he wasn't sure if he'd actually shut his car door, but it didn't seem all that important either way, and the thought drifted out of his mind as quickly as it had drifted in. His key unlocked the door to the apartment building, and he wondered which direction he needed to punch on the elevator panel. Up, he deduced, focusing hard on the up arrow, working his finger through the viscous air between him and the panel. When, at last, the up button lit, he spread his arms wide, bracing himself against the doors, waiting for them to open.

When they didn't immediately open, Daniel rested his head against the stainless-steel doors. His warm breath fogged the metal, and when the doors slid open, Daniel fell to the side, cracking his head against the jamb. He stumbled into the compartment, rubbed his head, and propped his body up against the corner. _Jesus,_ he was tired. His breaths came in shallow pants,. and all he wanted to do was crumple down in this corner and go to sleep. His head jerked forward, and Daniel glanced around the compartment, wondering why the doors hadn't opened. He squinted up at the number panel and couldn't quite figure out why he was still on the first floor. Had he fallen asleep while the elevator had ascended and then descended?

"Dammit," he muttered, smacking the button for the fifth floor. The elevator engaged, and he grasped hold of the walls to steady himself. He closed his eyes again, lay his cheek against the stainless-steel wall, and found himself grateful for the cool metal against his hot skin. Somehow it made his breathing easier.

Once on the fifth floor, he slumped forward and out of the elevator. On feet that felt strangely numb again, he stumbled down the hall to his door, searched once again for his key, which he realized after a moment, were still in his hand. He leaned against the door, and nearly lost his footing when the door opened of its own accord.

He thought that maybe he should drink some water to dilute some of alcohol, and fumbling for a glass in the sink, he filled it directly from the tap, splashing his hand and his sleeve. Carefully holding the glass in his hand, he made his way into the living room. His couch was covered with papers, books and an old pizza box and so he sat down on the carpet in front of it. Resting his back against the soft leather of the couch, he propped the glass on his thigh and kept sipping from it. Just a little more and the he'd go to sleep. That way, he could get a couple of decent hours in until he had to get up. He'd just take a few more sips, just close his eyes for a few minutes…

…until his phone rang. And rang. And rang. Daniel's eyes flew open, then he clamped them shut just as quickly against the bright, morning light. He threw his arm over his eyes, rolled over, only to gouge his cheek on some trinket from any one of his travels. There was a wet spot beside him and he puzzled a moment over that. His phone rang one last time before the answering machine picked up. Whoever it was, hung up without leaving a message.

Daniel lifted his arm, drew back his sleeve, and tried to focus on his watch. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and tried again. 0700. No way… it couldn't be… not yet… He looked at his watch again.

"Shit!" he cried, tearing himself from the floor. He ran into his bedroom, grabbed his bedside clock—0702. "It can't be. Fuck!" Panicked, he scrambled for the phone. _No,_ no time. He rushed into his bathroom, blasted on the hot water in the sink, scoured his teeth with a dry toothbrush, and, when the water was tepid, scrubbed down his face. He'd have to forget about shaving if he was going to make the 0730 mission. He drew his focus up to the reflection in the mirror, hoping his beard wasn't too grown out. He peered at his face, turning first one way, then another, then…

"What the hell?" Daniel pressed on the marks bruising his neck. He slapped more water on his skin, hoping to wash away the smudges of dirt, because what else could it be? When the marks seemed permanent, his pulse ramped up. He scratched at his neck, and then at the blotchy red marks around his mouth. Those, fortunately, smeared off onto his fingers.

He had a vague memory of dancing to country music, going to some woman's place, but that was it. He didn't really remember getting home and he sure as hell didn't remember how he'd wound up sleeping on his living room carpet. The sudden ringing of his phone startled him. There was no time to answer it, not time to try to remember what he clearly never set to memory. He rushed around his room, shoving his legs into pants that kept tangling in his feet, his arms into a bunched-up sweater. He found his shoes and turned frantic circles in his living room looking for his keys. They could be anywhere, he thought. He yanked open his junk drawer in the kitchen, scrambling to find the extra set. Nothing. He smacked himself on the forehead, hoping he'd be able to think. _Think, dammit! _

"Shit!" he yelled into the room, intentionally banging his head hard against the cupboard door to get his mind in gear.

_Okay, last place. Think. Last place. Where would I have… Last place._ He leapt to the door, tore it open and found his keys on the floor, just inside the hallway. He stared hard at them for a moment. Their position seemed relative to all the rest of his questions from the night before. He bent to pick them up, braced himself for a moment to stave off his dizziness, and ran down the hall and to the SGC.

---SG1---

General George Hammond turned his wrist and took note of the time and date, which he wrote on the bottom of the official document. He picked up the paper and began to read through it one last time before he signed it. It made him sick to have to do it, but rules were rules, and when—

"General, he's here," the airman said over the intercom.

General Hammond pressed the return button and instructed his aide to guide the man in.

"General?" Daniel Jackson said, entering Hammond's office. "You, uh, you needed…"

"You're supposed to be on a mission to P3X-452, Doctor Jackson," the general stated, rising from his seat, his anger rising as well.

"Yes, sir," Daniel began, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets. "I understand that, sir. I was in my office—"

"In your office?" the general questioned.

Daniel paused and took note of General Hammond's ruddy complexion, always a sign of anger, and Daniel knew he was going to have to talk fast in order to step out of the General's line of fire. "Yes, sir, I was in my office, readying myself for the mission, and…and I must have lost track of time. I assure you, sir, that that that I certainly didn't purposefully, nor did I…I simply lost track of—"

"SG1 left the SGC at 0740, a full ten minutes later than was their original departure time," the general said, cocking his head to the side, giving Daniel the very distinct impression that this would end badly. "Are you trying to tell me you were in your office the entire time; that you simply did not hear the repeated calls to your office and to your cell phone? Are these your allegations?"

"Uh, yes. Sir." Daniel felt dizzy and light-headed. He thought he might possibly even faint. "I'm really sorry, General. I—"

"Then explain this," the general said, sliding a photograph across the broad desk. Daniel stepped forward only far enough to glance at the picture, a screen capture from some digital camera. "You'll notice the time signature on the photo." And in the corner, directly above the clear snapshot of Daniel's face at the entrance checkpoint, was the imprint 0754. Daniel couldn't breathe, nor did he dare. "As of this moment, I'm placing you on disciplinary leave—"

"Do you really think that's—"

"—for the next two weeks."

"Look, General, I do apolgize for my lapse, I do… but I… I don't think it's necessary to—"

"During that time, Doctor Jackson," the general continued, never once taking his intractable gaze off him, "I want you to get your life in order so that—"

"My life _is_ in order."

"—_So that_ this official document doesn't turn into this document," the general said, first holding up Daniel's disciplinary action paper, and then a "Termination of Duties" paper. "Do I make myself clear, Doctor Jackson?" General Hammond watched as Daniel tried to set his jaw in defiance, but the desperation eyes gave away his fear and his dejection. The general softened his voice and hoped a different tack would touch something in the younger man. "There isn't one person on this base who wasn't saddened by the loss of Sha're—"

"Don't sir—"

"—and most of those people were reacting only in sympathy for you."

"Sir, this is—"

"I know how difficult the last few months have been, son, I surely do. But it's time to pull yourself up by the bootstraps and move on."

"Just like that, huh?" Daniel said quietly, with a soft, sardonic chuff.

"Colonel O'Neill, Major Carter, Teal'c—they've all been more than patient with you in this time of mourning. But when your personal problems begin to affect the workings of this program, then it's time to take stock of the situation—"

"There's nothing to take stock of, sir. I'm fine," Daniel insisted. "I… I realize that I've been a little… off lately, but I assure you—"

"You've been more than a little off." General Hammond balled up both hands then braced them on the polished veneer of his desk. "We all suffer, Daniel. That pain may never go away, but you still need to function, and right now, you're _not_ functioning."

To Daniel's great disservice, at that moment his evening inebriation began to wear off and his morning hangover began. "Actually, _I'm_ functioning just fine," he said, the irritation evident in his voice. "It's everyone else who's on my back all day long. Why don't you write _them_ up?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What I mean, is _you_ try and function with… with Sam and Jack on your back all day," Daniel tried to explain. "It's like they… they're ganging up on me, or something."

"I assure you, Daniel, your teammates have only expressed concern for you," the general said with interminable patience that only set Daniel's teeth on edge. The use of his first name pissed him off even more because it sounded downright condescending. "Take the two weeks," Hammond continued, "and I suggest that you use the time to get yourself back on track and do some serious thinking about your actions of late."

"Fine," Daniel said, jutting out his chin. He crossed his arms over his chest and placed his feet a little wider to keep from wavering. "Fine. Well, you know what? You've just done me a favor."

"How do you mean?"

"I… I don't need this," Daniel said, nodding. And he _didn't_ need this anymore. He was done. "I _do not_ need this," he repeated with greater vehemence.

"I will see you in two weeks, Doctor Jackson," Hammond said. He pulled his reading glasses from his front pocket, reached for some papers on the corner of his desk and began reading.

Daniel watched the general for a moment then took the hint, and with a mock salute, he turned and strode from Hammond's office. When he made it back to his car, he scarcely paid any mind to the large dent and scratches on the front bumper that he hadn't noticed before.

A little over an hour later, dressed in a heavy, well-worn sweater, he sat in the rattan chair on the balcony of his apartment. Next to his feet, was a quart of Scotch. Next to that, a pack of cigarettes. He raised his glass, not the first, nor would it be the last. There were a few more bottles waiting in the kitchen. He took a long drag on his cigarette.

"To the SGC," he sneered, raising the glass a little higher to the gray sky. "Go to hell."

---SG1---

"What are you going to say to him, sir?" Sam had asked.

Driving in his car, with the radio turned down low and three miles from Daniel's apartment, Jack still had no idea how to answer the question.

"Do you want me to come along?"

"No, Carter, I don't need any witnesses," Jack had replied, chuffing down the hallway of the base, making his way to the elevator.

"Sir," she said, reaching the elevator doors alongside Jack, "I realize this doesn't look good—"

"That's very perceptive of you, Major." Jack punched the up button.

"It's just that…" Sam paused, not really sure what she wanted to divulge. "Sir, with Daniel, it's always been—"

"Been what, Major?" Jack demanded, spinning toward her, while the elevator doors swung open. "Painful, aggravating, annoying? Yes, I agree." Jack headed, shoulder first, into the elevator, where he tapped level one.

Sam followed the colonel into the compartment and steadied her nerves. "It's just that I feel like part of this is my fault."

"Oh, for crying out loud, Carter." Jack crossed his arms and ankles, leaning against the elevator wall. It had been long mission, a longer debriefing, and quite possibly the longest ten minutes of his life trying to explain to Fraiser why their replacement archeologist had returned to the SGC on a stretcher ("How could I _possibly_ have known he was allergic to mastadges?"). "Daniel made his own bed. He can just… do whatever the hell he wants in it. For the next two weeks."

"But, sir, if I hadn't—"

"Dammit, Carter, were you here at 0530 yesterday morning?"

"Actually, I arrived at 0445."

"Did you, or did you not call Daniel every five minutes before we disembarked?"

"Not…not every five—"

"And did you make it through the gate on schedule?"

"Yes, sir, but—"

"Did you complete the mission as you were instructed?"

"Yes, sir, however—"

"Then knock it off, would ya?" Jack said, waving his hand in frustration. "Look, Carter, this…this business with Daniel is no more your fault than it is mine or Teal'c's."

"This isn't Daniel, sir."

"You talkin' foothold situation?"

"No."

"Has he been taken as a host?"

"Not that I—"

"Then it _is_ his fault!" Level one appeared outside the opening doors, and Jack stepped out.

"Sir…"

"I'm tired, Carter, and unless you have something to add…"

Sam fixed her pain-filled, regretful eyes on him, wishing she _had_ some sort of solution. "What are you going to say to him?"

Before the elevator doors whirred shut in her face, Jack honestly told her, "I don't know."

One more mile to go, and Jack still didn't know.

---SG1---

Sudden pounding on his door woke Daniel from a fathomless, dreamless sleep. He sat up, stared around the cluttered room and tried to make sense of where he was. It took a moment until, relieved, he realized that he was in his own living room, on the couch. His stomach churned, his head pounded, and he silently begged whomever it was to go away.

"Daniel?" a voice called in between thumps. You there?"

The banging was relentless, and Daniel tried to think around it, but its tempo was matching the throbbing, shrieking ache in his skull. He looked around him to see disarray surrounding him: empty bottles, dirty, smudged glasses, books, papers, last week's newspapers and there was no way he could let anyone in to see this. No way in hell.

"Daniel. It's Jack."

"Dammit, Jack," Daniel whispered, dropping his head back against the couch cushion. He swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat and swiped a wildly trembling hand over his mouth "Just go away." Jack was the absolute last person he wanted to see right now, and the absolute worst person to see him in this state.

Daniel's binge the night before had ended with him getting so violently ill that it felt as if he'd turned his stomach inside out. Maybe it was the combination he'd drank, maybe, in his anger at Hammond, at his team, at the entire fucking world in general, he'd just drank too fast. He'd probably damn near poisoned himself, but it didn't matter. He had nowhere he needed to be today, so Jack could just go the hell away.

Unfortunately, the hollow thumping, on his door continued on and on, interspersed with the sound of Jack's shouting voice. Daniel wanted to keep ignoring it, or yell at Jack knock it off and get lost, but he knew that wouldn't work. Jack would only keep hammering on his door, keep hollering until Daniel's neighbors called the police, or Daniel gave in and let him in—like he always did.

"Shit." Daniel glanced at his watch - it was already 11:14am - he stumbled to his feet and skidded on a crumpled page by his feet, his head swimming, the world doing a sickening loop for a moment, but somehow, he managed to just reach the hallway without toppling over.

The door clicked open and Jack let himself in with his own key.

Surprised by Jack's effrontery, Daniel stopped so abruptly he had to quickly grab onto the wall for support. _What, did the guy think he paid the rent around here, or something?_ he thought with a surge of anger. He planted a wide, fake smile on his face. "Hi, Jack. Please _do_ come in!"

The sarcasm went ignored as Jack strode inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Jesus, Daniel," Jack breathed out when he took in the mess of papers, dirty clothes, garbage bags and empties.

"If I knew you were coming, I'd'a cleaned up a little," Daniel said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, well, I figured you wouldn't mind a visit from your old pal," Jack said with a deceptively casual shrug. "Heard you had an interesting meeting with Hammond yesterday morning," Jack said, getting straight to the point as usual, cocking his head to the side. "In case you're wondering, things went well without you," he continued, raising an eyebrow.

"Actually, I wasn't wondering," Daniel answered.

"So you... just figured you'd just take the day off, even though you knew how important our mission was?" Jack raised an eyebrow and clenched his jaw.

"Something like that."

"Something like that," Jack echoed with incredulity, surprised by the simple admission. "Look, Daniel—"

"What do you want, Jack?" Daniel said with rapidly diminishing patience. "Last I heard, I was on two-week's suspension, so maybe we should have this talk in, oh... two weeks?"

"No, see, I didn't really come here to talk. I was thinking more about taking a nice pound of flesh, for starters." Jack narrowed his eyes and looked him up and down, assessing him. "Daniel, you do realize that if Carter had pulled the same kind of shit you did by missing our disembark without good reason, I'd ask her to consider reassignment?"

"So you came all the way over here to ask me to consider reassignment?" Daniel said, leaning up against the wall.

"Reassignment, no. Your entire career, yes," Jack blurted, and Daniel blinked, then frowned at him.

"Look, Jack, I really don't need this, right now…" Cold sweat broke out on his spine and he was so dizzy he felt queasy, even though there was nothing left in his stomach.

"Do you want out?" Jack blurted, and Daniel blinked, then frowned at him.

"What?"

"You heard me," Jack all but snarled. "If you want off the team, just say so, because I've had enough of your subtlety."

"Jack..." Daniel shook his head and had to close his eyes against another wave of dizziness. "Look… I just… okay, I wasn't feeling well this morning and I overslept. I _tried_ to make it on time and… and I'm _sorry,_ okay?"

"You overslept?" Jack said flatly, but his eyes were blazing with anger. _"That's_ your actual excuse?"

Daniel nodded, unable to look into those eyes. What he'd said was the closest to the truth as he was willing to get. "Yeah, that's my excuse, and I apologize to you, Sam and Teal'c for the inconvenience, so can we just drop this now because—"

"We'll _drop it_ when I get some answers from you," Jack countered. "And I mean _real_ answers, Daniel, not more bullshit excuses."

Daniel dared a glance at his friend. He chewed on his lip and tightened his hands on his biceps, his fingers digging into his flesh. "There's nothing more to say, Jack," he said quietly, meeting Jack's gaze full on now. He turned his back and ducked into the kitchen, hoping Jack would get a clue and just leave him the hell alone.

Unfortunately, Jack only followed right behind him. "Don't you walk away from me, dammit!"

Daniel ducked his head, cursing under his breath while Jack continued to yell at him, something about how he was sick of Daniel's bullshit, his childish, irresponsible behavior, how he was _this_ close to knocking him on his ass… and from there on, Daniel tuned out. He couldn't deal with this right now. He couldn't seem to focus, couldn't seem to get his brain to make the right synapses between Jack's voice and his own responses. Or lack thereof, because he couldn't think of a single thing to say to defend himself. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, his headache unbelievably pitched up another level. For a moment, he couldn't even comprehend what Jack was saying and the other man's voice faded to a hum of white noise.

All he knew was that he couldn't remember ever wanting, ever _needing_ a drink this badly before.

"…the hell is going on with you?"

Jack's stunned voice drifted back to him as though from miles away. Daniel's gaze followed Jack's arm that was waving around to indicate the kitchen. He'd stopped in front of the sink, but his eyes were fixed on the counter. Daniel's heart seemed to stop beating when he realized what Jack was staring at.

The bottles. _Oh, god._

Over the past few weeks, Daniel hadn't bothered to throw any of the bottles away. He'd scarcely set foot in the kitchen, really.

Jack turned around to face him, fists clenched, features contorted with a mingling of anger and fear. "Had a party, did you?" Jack said in a low, mocking tone, but his eyes held a different suspicion.

Daniel steeled himself, took a few steps back, both physically and mentally. His thoughts churned, all the old excuses whirled in his head and he just had to find the right one to explain this. He could handle this. He could handle Jack.

"Oh, yeah, _big_ party," he sneered after a moment, deciding that the best defense was a good offense. Give as good as you were getting. Sometimes that was the only thing that worked with Jack. "Sorry, forgot to invite you. Maybe next time."

Jack shook his head, blew out air through his nose, scoffing him. He held up his hand with two fingers upraised, like the old peace sign. "Two problems with that story. One: you don't _have_ enough friends to throw a party of this magnitude." Jack tucked his middle finger down. "Two: you look wrecked enough to have drank all this on your own, not to mention, you smell like a damn brewery, Jack paused to take a breath, his gaze now fixed unwavering on him. "So, how about that explanation now, Daniel."

"There's nothing to explain," Daniel said, his face burning with shame. "I don't have to explain anything to you." In truth, he was amazed that Jack hadn't clued in yet. Couldn't he see?

Jack planted his feet a little wider, demonstrating that he had no intention of going anywhere. His gaze traveled from Daniel's pale, bare feet, to his ragged pair of jeans that had gone unwashed for so long they could all but stand up on their own, to his stretched out, faded T-shirt and the two days worth of stubble on his jaw.

"I thought you and I had a deal," Jack said, his eyes narrowed, still appraising him. "After all that mess from when Sha're died, you said this was going to stop."

Daniel suddenly remembered the promise he'd made to his friend. The one that had seemed like such a good idea at the time.Okay, so maybe Jack _could_ see, after all. Maybe Jack knew all too well what was going on, and he was just having a little trouble taking it all in.

Still, Daniel felt the strange need to defend himself. Still tried to find a way to hide that he'd failed, that he'd reneged on their deal, because, well, old habits were hard break, weren't they? His stomach churned, his heart pounded too fast in his chest as he tried to think of a way out. Tried to think of a way to make Jack not see anymore.

"Th-this… this is all old stuff," he lied. "I was… I was just cleaning up when you came over. They're old… from… back then… and I… I just forgot about them…" his allowed his voice to off when he realized that his stammered words sounded as false to him as they probably did to Jack.

"Daniel—"

"I'll just finish cleaning up, so if you would just _leave,_" Daniel headed toward the sink, pushing past Jack and ducking his head so he wouldn't have to look at those condemning eyes anymore. He couldn't think with Jack staring at him like that. "I…I could finish cleaning up and—"

"Daniel, listen," Jack stepped close beside him and tried to meet his gaze, but Daniel refused to look at him. Jack continued anyway, "God knows I understand that what we do is hard sometimes. Sometimes a drink in the evening helps you forget. Helps you get to sleep at night. I hear ya on that, but this—this is getting _way_ out of hand," Jack said, his voice softer, trying to understand, trying to empathize.

Daniel shook his head, and he wasn't listening to this, he didn't want to hear this, and began to gather up the bottles. _Jesus, this was bad, this was beyond bad… _

Jack grabbed hold of Daniel's wrist as he reached for a few of the bottles. "Daniel, just stop and listen to me for a minute, dammit—"

Daniel knew just what Jack was going to say next, and he didn't want to hear it. Sudden anger filled him. A sudden irrational sense of violation. What the hell right did Jack have to just barge in here like this? Who the hell did he think he was? Daniel's throat tightened with simmering fury, but when he found his voice to speak, it was low, deceptively calm.

"Just get out of here, Jack," he snapped, glaring at his friend and yanking his wrist fee.

Jack blinked, momentarily startled by the mingled anger and desperation in Daniel's eyes. He took a breath, pursing his lips, trying to summon his patience. "Or what?"

"Get out!" Daniel shouted, the anger rising to the surface. He slapped one of the nearest bottles in Jack's direction. It spun on the counter toppling to the floor, surprisingly without breaking, but Jack still instinctively jumped out of the way.

Daniel watched him with a brief moment of triumph. _Didn't expect that, did you? _

Jack kicked aside the still spinning bottle and charged at him, jabbing a finger in his chest. "I've had it, Daniel! You need to shut your mouth and listen up!"

Daniel stood his ground. "No, _you_ listen for a change!"

"Listen to what? The ravings of a guy who's so pathetically drunk he can barely stand up?"

In an instant, the fury ignited, and all Daniel could see, feel and hear was a red, incandescent, roaring blur. He spun, and seemingly of its own accord, his fist flew out, and his knuckles grazed Jack's cheekbone before Jack, at the last second, managed to dodge the blow. Jack caught his wrist and yanked him forward. Before Daniel had time to react, Jack had bunched his hands in Daniel's worn T-shirt. Taking a running step, and using gravity for momentum, Jack slammed him against the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs; hard enough for his teeth to snap together from the impact. Daniel heard his T-shirt rip, heard the cupboard doors rattle.

Jack's shocked and angry face was inches from his own, his eyes blazing. Daniel bucked against Jack's grip, twisting and clawing ineffectually at Jack's forearms. Jack tightened his grip and shoved him back against the wall a second time. The back of Daniel's head thumped on the wall.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kick you off the team, right now? _Tell_ me!"

"I'm already on suspension, so what difference does it make?" Daniel shouted back. "Go ahead – make it official, Jack. You've been waiting for an excuse for years, haven't you?"

"Don't tempt me, Daniel." Jack stared into Daniel's wild, glazed eyes. "In fact, I'm trying really hard to think of a reason why not to. And trying even harder to think of a reason why I shouldn't knock some sense into that damned stubborn head of yours!"

Daniel twisted under Jack's near stranglehold, snarling with fury when he couldn't break free. Even though Jack was close to 15 years older than him, he was still surprisingly strong. "Let go of me!" Daniel tried to kick out at Jack, but Jack shifted his position, kicking away Daniel's foot with his own.

"No, I won't," Jack sneered into his face. "What in the hell are you gonna do about it? Huh?"

"Dammit, Jack, let _go!_" Daniel shouted, twisting Jack's coat in his hands. "It's none of your fucking business what I do!"

"That's where you're wrong!" Jack shouted, his fists bunching in Daniel's shirt. "_Everything_ you do _is_ my damned _business!" _He punctuated his words by slamming Daniel against the wall one more time. "Because every time you screw up out there, you put _my_ life at risk, _Sam's_ life at risk, and _Teal'c's_ life at risk!" Jack's hands pressed up tight into his chest, elbows digging in his ribs, pinning him in place. _"That's_ why it's my _fucking_ business, Daniel!" One more hard slam against the wall, and Daniel's teeth snapped down on the soft flesh of the inside of his cheek. He tasted the blood spilling into his mouth, but strangely enough, it didn't hurt.

"Last time I checked, when we're off the clock," he gasped around the chokehold on his shirt, "what I do on my own time isn't any of your business, so fuck off, Jack."

"I swear to God, Daniel," Jack ground out through clenched teeth, his fists tightening, "I could kick your ass from here to Omaha, and nobody, _nobody_ would blame me!"

Daniel met Jack's glare full-on, challenging him and when he saw black anger in those dark eyes, he knew that Jack was about to punch him. A strange part of him waited for it, even. But Jack didn't hit him, didn't release him. He just stood there, panting, his eyes blazing, warring with himself, and Daniel couldn't stand it anymore.

"Go ahead, Jack! What are you waiting for?" Daniel choked out. He strained against the other man, but he couldn't move. He was pinned in place, completely under Jack's iron control. He forced back the rising panic at that. At the terrible familiarity of that trapped feeling of helplessness. He remembered Davies grabbing onto him like this, pinning his arms, shaking him, taunting him, mocking him, right before he started hitting.

"Go on! _Do_ it!" he shouted, unthinking, his mind a desperate, caged animal that just wanted _out!_ "Let's see what a tough bastard you _really_ are, Jack," he challenged, smiling through bloodstained teeth. "That's what you came here for, right? To kick my ass? So do it already, or get the fuck out of my house!"

Jack's face clouded with greater fury, and he drew back his fist. Daniel looked into Jack's eyes and braced for the imminent assault. And then Jack just froze, his fist a mere inch away from Daniel's face, his eyes wide and shocked.

With a snarl, he shoved Daniel away from him. Reeling, Daniel tried to catch his balance by grabbing onto the counter, but his hands slipped in something spilled on there. His feet skidded out from under him. He fell to his knees, hard, his palms slapping painfully onto the floor. Dazed, he just stayed there, on his hands and knees, his head spinning, his ribs aching. He closed his eyes, swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. He dared a glance at Jack, but the other man had turned to stare again at the unbelievable image in front of him. Daniel watched as Jack fully took in the oddly neat formation of the lined up bottles, in stark contrast to the disarray of tottering piles of unwashed dishes surrounding them. Another line up of multi-colored various sized bottles flanked the hallway leading to the living room. Daniel didn't even remember lining up the bottles like that. They looked like sentries, but guardians of what? Against having to think, he supposed. Having to remember, and they were damn good at their jobs.

To an outsider, however, they looked… frightening. Sick.

"I-it's not what it looks like, I can explain," Daniel said, and pulled himself up from the floor.

"No," Jack said, his face pale, his voice shaking a little. "Not anymore." Jack picked up one of the bottles from the counter. It still had a few shots left in it. "Is this really what you want, Daniel?" Jack asked. He waited until Daniel met his gaze, and lifting the bottle, Jack overturned it so that that the amber liquid glugged down the drain. "Has it come to this?" With a snap, Jack hurled bottle the sink where it exploded with a spectacular smash.

Daniel flinched at stared at Jack wide-eyed. "Jack—"

But Jack paid him no mind. He tore open the cupboard under the sink where Daniel kept his garbage can. Jack all but threw the can to the middle of the kitchen where it wobbled a few times, not even four feet from where Daniel stood. Finally, it toppled over, and when it did, old, moldering food, coffee grounds and bottle after bottle clattered out and onto the floor, some of them shattering on impact. Daniel closed his eyes, and in that moment all the defenses he'd worked so hard to build finally crumbled. All the secrets, all the lies—stacks of them, one on top of the other—were all coming down, one by one. Soon it would all come crashing down to shatter into millions of pieces.

In a way, it was almost a relief.

"What the hell are you doing to yourself, Daniel?" Jack's tight, wavering voice made him jump. _"Look_ at me, dammit!"

Somehow, Daniel found the courage to look his friend in the eye. Jack righted the trashcan, then snatched an ornate, empty whiskey bottle from the counter and waved it at Daniel. "Is this what you want? Are you really willing to give it all up for this?"

Jack punctuated his query by hurling the bottle in the trashcan. It struck the other bottles still inside with a spectacular smash, and Daniel flinched at the sound, as though he had been struck with a physical blow. Shards of glass flew, some landing on his sleeve, wet and glittering, like crushed ice.

"Do you think this solves anything?" Jack ground out through gritted teeth. He slammed yet another bottle on top of the others, and there was another ear-splitting explosion of glass. "Do you!" Not waiting for an answer, he went over to the counter, picked up the one-quarter full bottle of scotch and pitched it against the back of the kitchen. The bottle exploded, pieces bounced off the cupboard, others showered the floor.

Daniel ducked at the spray of glass, even though none of it reached him. Then another bottle followed—this time sounding like a gunshot. Then another one.

Daniel's body jolted with each crash. Every bottle Jack threw was a blow of condemnation, of disgust. Each shattering of glass fractured Daniel's heart, splintered his soul just a little more, until he thought he'd scream. He wrapped his arms tight around his chest and began to shake so hard his teeth were nearly rattling together. He wanted to shout at Jack to stop, just stop it, but instead, he said nothing, he just stood there and took it. Maybe it was because he knew he deserved Jack's anger. He deserved all of it.

Jack gathered the few remaining empties in his arms, the bottles clinking together. He dropped the bottles tumbling end over end into the trash. The racket was enough to set Daniel's teeth on edge.

Chest heaving, Jack pointed at Daniel. "This ends _right now!_ You got it? It ends, or you lose more than your job."

Daniel stared at Jack, too stunned to say anything, to even move. He'd expected anger, but this… this was… This was it, wasn't it? He'd blown it for good with Jack. Their friendship, the SGC. Everything. It was done. It had all come toppling down, and he had nothing left. Daniel turned his head away when his eyes burned with the onset of tears. He heard Jack ask him something, but he couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter, because he couldn't answer him. He didn't dare speak, or look at Jack again, because he knew that if he did, he'd lose it.

Jack cursed under his breath, and Daniel heard the unmistakable jangle of keys. He heard Jack's footsteps thudding on the wood floor in the hallway. Then the front door slammed shut, causing him to flinch again.

And just as quickly as it had begun, it was over, and he was alone once again. He closed his eyes, told himself to breathe, just breathe. He tried to calm down, tried to stop shaking, tried to fight back the tears that wanted to come.

When the danger of bursting into tears and completely losing it passed, he opened his eyes to see the results of Jack's destruction. The sudden quiet was startling.

Dropping to his hands and knees, he slid over to the worst of the mess and began to pick up bits and pieces of clear glass, green glass, blue and brown glass with his trembling fingers, simply because he couldn't think of anything else to do. Because it was something he thought he _should_ do in this instance.

Some of the shards lay in shining pools of alcohol, and he had an irrational urge to dab up the spilled liquid and lick it from his fingers. Something dripped onto the floor, leaving small, dark, wet circles on the wood. It took a moment for him to register that the drops were tears. He realized that despite his best efforts to hold it together, he was crying a little. Ignoring the tears he could now feel dripping from his face, Daniel dropped the shards from his palm inside the garbage can. The glass tinkled almost musically as it fell.

In a daze, he continued to pick up the brightly colored pieces of glass until he noticed that the floor was smeared with red. Blood instead of tears. He'd even slid his knees through the blood, and his pant legs were streaked with it. At the sight of his own blood, Daniel suddenly felt the sting in his right palm. Turning his hand over, he saw a wide, semi-circular gash curving from the pad at the base of his thumb to the knuckle of his ring finger. The cut looked absurdly like a ragged, grinning mouth, mocking him. He hadn't even felt the glass cutting into his hand.

He sank down to sit back on his heels, cradled his bleeding hand in his lap, and looked around at all the mess surrounding him. It was too much. Too fucking much.

The intermingled sharp smell of alcohol and the dank stink of old garbage filled the air and his nostrils. His eyes burned and stung with tears, but he couldn't cry anymore. The tears wouldn't fall. His breath caught, his lungs hitched with silent, airless sobs, but he couldn't cry. There was just a tightness in his chest, so tight, it hurt to breathe. For some reason, that tightness felt disconcertingly familiar.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he pulled his eyes open, he was shivering and lying on his side on the cold floor. Glass crunched underneath him when he stirred, poking his cheekbone, his ribs, his hip. His hand hurt, and when he tried to uncurl his fingers, they were sticky with half-dried blood.

Daniel blinked a few times, trying to clear the haziness from his vision. From his position on the floor, his gaze was in direct line with the bits of broken glass scattered across the floor like an army of insects. Each time he blinked and pulled his heavy eyelids open again, the pieces seemed to move. When he shifted his head, the light overhead refracted off the shards in varying colors. Brown, blue, green, amber, clear. They looked more like jewels glittering in the light like that, he thought. Sparkling, cold, hard, sharp.

Somehow, he managed to pull himself to his feet. He didn't want to look at the glass anymore. At the evidence of his weakness and broken promises. He winced when his bare feet crunched on the shards that lay scattered around him and staggered to his bedroom.

Shaking and nauseous with what he recognized all too well as his body's scream for a fix, Daniel fell, rather than lay down, on his bed. He ignored the demands and miseries of his body and wrapped the quilt around him, curling up on his side. Burying himself completely in the blanket's warmth and tucking his face under the covers, he squeezed his eyes shut, and in a matter of seconds, sleep mercifully came and took him away from it all.

---SG1---

He didn't like doing this. Nope, not one damn bit.

It was just that look in Daniel's eyes. Christ, if Jack just hadn't seen that look—scared, lost, pitiful. He'd only seen it once before, and it was behind a gun pointed at Jack's head. He had hoped to God he'd never see it again, and there it was.

He didn't like doing it. If there were any other way, Jack wouldn't be calling Fraiser, but he was pretty sure there was no other way.

"Come on, Doc," Jack whispered into the phone, listening to the dial tone.

When he left Daniel's apartment a little over an hour ago, Jack was done with him. Done with the lying, the drinking, the denials, the friendship—all of it. Jack had slammed the door, slammed his car into drive, slammed his key into his front door, and slammed a beer. He was about ready to slam the empty bottle into the sink when he realized it might break and cause a mess.

That was the moment the self-recrimination really took hold. That was the moment when Jack had to remember all the empties in his past, each one a white flag of surrender.

He didn't like doing it. So when Doc Fraiser answered her phone, Jack found it hard to say anything.

"Who is this?" she asked.

"Hey, Doc. It's me. Jack." Jack scooted the empty across the counter and turned his back on it.

"Colonel," she replied. "How can I help you?"

"Yeah, so, here's the thing," Jack began, scratching his head. "Daniel's drunk."

"What's new?"

That stopped him. "Okay, well, I don't mean like…like fun-Daniel drunk. I mean like…not-fun-Daniel…drunk." She'd just have to take his word for it.

"Where is he?"

"That's the other thing," Jack said, turning back toward the counter, where he rested his elbows. Eyeing the empty, he hid it behind the coffee maker. "He's in his apartment."

"How is that the other—"

"Surrounded by broken glass."

"What? What the hell happened? How do you know that? Why is he alone? Where is—"

"Doc!" Jack snapped, overwhelmed by all the questions. "He's…He's there and I'm here, and I'll be there soon, but I think you need to come with me. Oh, and possibly Carter, too."

"Colonel…" she began in her "all due respect, sir, what the hell did you do this time?" voice.

"Hang on. I'm going to conference in Carter." Jack put Doc on hold, dialed Sam's number, and reminded himself one more time how much he really didn't like doing these things. While he waited for the phone to pick up, Jack reached behind the coffee maker and found the empty beer bottle. He opened the lower cupboard door with his foot, tossed the bottle in the trash can, and heard it clang against another empty. That noise, that powerful suggestion of his own culpability caused Jack to pause. Self-recrimination dug in further.

"This is Carter."

"Carter. O'Neill. Hold on. I've got the Doc on the other line," Jack said, not waiting for her reply. He pressed the button, brought the phone to his ear, and said, "Doc?"

"Still here."

"Carter."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Well, we have a problem."

"What's Daniel done this time, sir?"

Jack nodded. That was to be expected, he decided. "He's got a problem, which means we've got a problem."

"Agreed," Doc said.

"Absolutely," said Sam.

"Can we also agree that we've all been covering for him in the last couple months?" Jack asked.

Janet was the first to reply. "I can if you can."

"Yes, sir. I have."

"Look, Colonel," Janet said, "now that it's out in the open that we all know about Daniel, what are we going to do?"

Jack blinked. He hadn't really thought that far ahead. He went with his gut. "We go to his apartment and tie him to a chair if we have to, until he dries out."

"Have you considered the medical ramifications of that?" Janet asked, lacing her words with a sense of sarcasm.

"Of course I have, Doc. And that's why I'm calling you…" Jack replied, ignoring her sarcasm.

"I think what Janet's trying to say, sir, is it might not be that easy."

"Yes, Carter, I know."

"My primary concern at this point is the condition in which you last saw Daniel, Colonel," Janet said. "You mentioned broken glass."

"I guess we'll find out when we go over there," Jack said.

"We?" the women chimed in.

"Look, call it an intervention, call it power in numbers, but it's gonna take the three of us to convince him that he needs to pry this monkey off his back."

"Sir, I'm not disagreeing with you, but you know Daniel as well as I do, and he's not one just to follow orders," Sam said.

"So," said Janet, "your plan is we go over to his apartment to try to convince him that we're doing this in his best interest."

"Yes. Exactly."

"Oh, he's just gonna love that," Janet said.

"Yeah, this is gonna go over really well with Daniel," Sam said.

Jack slumped into a chair and realized he had a piece of the puzzle of Daniel's life that they didn't. Full disclosure being the running theme of the conversation, Jack said, "I think Daniel's willing to admit he's reached his limits."

That quieted them.

"And as much as I really would like to tie him to a chair, this isn't about placing blame on anyone, least of all Daniel," Jack went on. "It's about helping him. Should that include a chair and some rope, so be it."

"I agree," said Janet.

"Which part?" Jack asked, hoping he may actually be allowed to actually hog-tie Daniel to a chair.

"I agree with we need to help him, of course," Janet said, thereby dashing Jack's hopes.

"So do I, but, sir," said Sam, "you'll have to admit that Daniel might not take it that way."

Janet said, "More importantly, Colonel, if Daniel is as bad as I think he is, then we go to his apartment and take him to a detox center where he can go through the process under medical supervision."

Jack plunked his head down in this hand, and said, "Good idea, Doc. And then I'll go fill out his resignation papers."

"I don't think it will come to that."

"Are you kidding me?" he all but yelled into the phone. "What military have you been working for? You know as well as I do that if Hammond—if the SGC, if…if the oversight committee got wind of this, Daniel will be so out on his ass."

Sam said, "I have to agree with the colonel, Janet."

"Well, what do you expect is going to happen, then?" Janet demanded.

"He'll dry out in the comfort and privacy of his own home," Jack told her. "With us invading the comfort and privacy of his own home, at will."

"I can't allow that to happen, sir," Janet stated.

"Why?"

"Because it's not as easy as all that. Depending on his addiction, he could go into convulsions. His heart rate and blood pressure can be compromised, his liver functions may be in jeopardy," Janet said, listing one after another all the reasons she knew Jack would disregard. Still, she persisted. "If he's as bad as I believe he is, Daniel could be looking at delirium tremens, and that's not something you can just ride out, Colonel. You, of all people, should know that."

Jack didn't necessarily appreciate the clarifying appositive thrown his way, especially with his 21C on the other line, but he admitted to himself that those were all possibilities he had actually considered. Jack wasn't going to admit that to Janet and Sam, however.

"He's not that bad," is all Jack would offer.

"Exactly how do you know that, sir?" Janet asked.

Before Jack could answer, Sam broke in. "What would be the best-case scenario? I mean, based on what you've seen lately, how bad is he, Janet?"

Janet took a deep breath, and Jack prepared himself for news he may not have been able to figure into his equation. "I can't be sure. A couple days ago I questioned him about his drinking. On his last blood test, his triglycerides were through the roof, and I basically confronted him with the information."

"So—what?—he's not only a drunk, he's a sugar junkie?" Jack asked, becoming frustrated with all the talk.

"No, Colonel, I'm saying alcohol is loaded with sugar, and if his blood tests are any indication, he's been drinking very large quantities. So best-case scenario," Janet said, segueing into Sam's question, "Daniel has three-to-seven days of terrible discomfort in front of him."

"We'll stay with him. What's the problem?" Jack asked.

"I wish it were that easy, Colonel," Janet said. "What if he needs medications? How are you going to determine that?"

"You'll check on him."

"What makes you so sure?" Janet said, venturing out into the land of insubordination. "Look, Colonel, you know I'll do whatever I can. But I need to be clear about the fact that I could lose my license for this kind of impropriety."

"And Daniel could lose much more," Jack stated, cold and indifferent. At least that's what he hoped she would hear, and not the fear and desperation he truly felt.

"Oh, no," Janet interjected, "that's not going to work on me, Colonel."

"Janet," Sam said, "we understand the spot we're putting you in, but frankly, I don't see that we have any other choice."  
"Certainly we have a choice, and that's taking him to detox!" Janet protested.

"Dammit, Doc."

"Fine," Janet said. "Fine. What if he needs urgent medical attention? I can't cover up official records."

"Right. I understand. But what if we go over there, you check on him, and he seems well enough to detox at home?"

"That's a pretty big 'what-if'"

"Granted, but let's say he's not in need of urgent care. He's still missing from work close to a week, minimum," Sam reminded them.

"Yeah, well, Hammond kind of saw to that," Jack said, not relishing the fact that he had aired Daniel's dirty laundry out on the phone line.

"Sir?"

"How's that?"

"When Daniel didn't show up for disembark, General Hammond put him on suspension for two weeks."

"That's actually… very convenient," Janet said.

"I'll say," Sam answered back.

"So, one question answered," Janet said. "What about the meds Daniel's going to need?"

"Like what?" Sam asked.

"Anything from Valium to Diazepam."

"Well, okay," Sam said, "write a scrip for me. I've been pretty shaken up since the memory wipe. I could use some help sleeping at night."

"Oh, no, if we're going to do this, I'm writing the scrip for you, Colonel," Janet said.

"Excuse me?" Jack said, suddenly pulled back into the conversation.

"Take it or leave it, sir," the doctor said.

"I'm going to guess this falls under the paybacks are hell theme, doesn't it?"

"Oh, you bet."

"Fine," Jack said, straightening in his chair. "I'm fine with that. See, in my book, one does things for one's friends. If I have to take one for the team, so be it."

"Nice try, sir," Sam offered.

"Damn." Jack slumped back down and combed his hand through his hair. "Okay, well, anyhow, we have a plan."

"So how do we do this?" Sam asked.

"We go to his apartment, tell him we know what's going on, and it needs to stop," Jack said. Seemed simple enough to him. "He doesn't have a choice."

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that, sir," Sam said.

"Well, Major," Jack began, "here's the deal—I couldn't give one rat's ass whether you're comfortable with it, or whether Daniel's comfortable with it. In fact, I want him to be good and _uncomfortable._ Right now, he's in no shape to make the decisions he needs to make, so I'm going to make them for him."

There was an appreciable silence on both ends of his phone, and Jack had a moment to wonder if he'd finally been too short with both of them.

"God, I hate to admit it when you're right," Janet finally said, and Jack relaxed.

"So you're saying it's our job to help get him sober?" Sam asked.

"No, I don't think so. Correct me if I'm wrong, Colonel, but it's _Daniel's_ job to get sober," Janet said.

"Yeah, that's what I said," Jack told her.

"No, you said—"

"Look, my point is this," Jack said, taking a deep breath, "from where I'm standing, Daniel's about two drinks from the land of Nick Nolte. I've already had enough with the drama. It needs to stop here."

"Just like that?" Sam interjected, incredulous.

"No, not just like that, but where's this going to end, otherwise?" Jack shifted his weight and massaged the back of his neck. "Bottom line, we have an opportunity to do this, right now. And no, Major, I don't think it's going to be easy, but it has to be done."

"Okay, so we go over there and he dries out," Sam said, and in her words, Jack could hear her coming around, but with reservations. "Who's to say he stays dry?"

"It's been my experience that drying out is the easy part," Janet said. "Convincing someone they need to stay dry is the hard part."

"Are we really the people to convince him of that?" she asked.

"You tell me—who else does he have?" Jack asked, and when both lines remained quiet, he knew he had finally found the key.

"Okay," Sam said, "then let's do this. What do you want me to do, Colonel?"

Jack had hunkered down in his chair ready for a heftier battle, so Sam's offer caught him off guard. "Uh, well, his apartment."

"What about his apartment?"

"It's pretty bad. I'm thinking trash bags, probably laundry detergent, that kind of stuff. Carpet cleaner, if you can find one," Jack said, realizing he was shouldering her with all the domestic responsibilities; realizing as well the sexist undertones of doing so. He made a mental note to apologize to her later. "Oh, and food. Real food. Can you do that, Carter?"

"I can do that," Sam said, without a hint of indignation in her voice, for which Jack was grateful.

"I do this one way, Colonel," Janet announced, breaking into the conversation. "If, at any time, I feel his life is in jeopardy, I _will_ admit him to the nearest treatment center of my choice. That's non-negotiable."

"It won't come to that," Jack said, and hoped it to be true.

"Colonel…"

"But I agree."

"Good," said Janet. "I'll go back to the SGC and see what I can gather."

Jack paused to look at his watch. "All right, I'm going over to Daniel's now. Can I expect to see you both within the next couple hours?"

"Yes, sir," Sam said.

"I'll see what I can do," Janet said.

"That's all I ask," Jack told them and hung up the phone. He steeled himself for what was to come. For facing his friend.

* * *

---tbc---


	14. Reparations pt 6

Thanks so much for the reviews! We will try thank each of you individually very soon, but till then, do know that your feedback is greatly appreciated.

* * *

Sam knew she'd find what she was looking for. She didn't even dare hope that she'd find nothing. Standing in the middle of Daniel's office, she knew it was just a matter of looking in the right place. She'd been suspecting it for months. And after her conversation with the colonel and Janet, yeah, she knew. She knew she'd find something here.

Sam slid open his desk drawer, pushed aside papers and supplies. Nothing. She straightened up the contents and closed the drawer again. Was it possible that there really wasn't anything here? No, Daniel simply would be that obvious about it. She'd find what she was looking for. Opening his file drawer, Sam flipped through papers and files angled back toward the divider. Nothing. She closed the drawer. And thought about angled files. Angled files have a way of collapsing on themselves, not remaining straight. She yanked open the drawer again and pulled the group of files forward.

There it was. On its side. A wedge to prop up all those files. A pint of vodka. Sam lifted it carefully, as if it were evidence, as she supposed it was. She placed it on the desk, sat back heavily in Daniel's chair, and shut the drawer with her foot.

"Dammit!" she shouted, seizing the bottle and the garbage can next to his desk. She shot up from the chair, pitched the bottle into the can, and vowed to find every last damn bottle in his office. She knew there were more here. She could feel them. She felt them mocking her, from all corners of his office, taunting her that they had been in his office all along, right under her nose.

Throwing open lab-table drawers, rifling through papers and equipment, Sam came up empty. Maybe she had found the one and only bottle. _No,_ she quickly quashed that thought. _There were more of them here. _She knew it.

The bookshelf, she thought even as her gaze fell upon the rows and books along one wall. Behind ancient textbooks, books on mythology and dead languages would be the last place Daniel would ever expect anyone to look. She began to carefully search behind each book. But that took too much time. Instead, she pushed whole sections of books as far as she could flat against the shelf, figuring that if anything was hidden behind, certain books wouldn't slide back, like a piece of the puzzle revealed.

And there it was – three books stuck out. Sam grabbed hold of the books on Celtic mythology and inched them out. A nearly full bottle of whiskey was stashed behind them. "Nice," she said, sliding it off the shelf and tossing it, too, in the garbage can. It landed with a sharp clatter.

"Wonder what I'll find behind the Russian section," Sam muttered under her breath, and going with the same tactic, she shoved every book on the shelf against the back. Then on to the next shelf. With each smack of books against the wall, her anger and resentment grew. How the hell had it come to this? How did Daniel, who was so smart, who seemed so far beyond something like this…

And then she noticed another bulge in the row of books. She ripped the books from the shelf. A fifth of gin. She hurled the bottle into the garbage can. Hooking her fingers onto the tops of entire sections of books, Sam began to tear them from the shelf. First six, then eight, then the rest of the shelf, then the shelf below, all tumbling to the floor, burying her feet, careening off his lab table.

A flashlight. She had come upon a flashlight behind a stack of books. She wiped the tears from her face, blinked, and stared at it a while longer. That was strange... Why would there be a… She picked up the flashlight from the shelf, and when she did, she felt the slosh of something liquid inside. "Oh, Daniel," she breathed out, closing her eyes for a moment. She steadied herself against the bookshelf and let the enormity of the situation careen over her.

"Major Carter."

It was Teal'c, his mellow voice full of concern and his ever-present reason and calm was exactly what Sam needed right now. She slowly turned around and showed Teal'c her stricken, tear-stained face. She jerked her chin in the direction of the garbage can. Teal'c looked at what was inside, and his face became clouded with both confusion and worry. Sam didn't have time to wonder how much Teal'c understood of this new reality.

"Will you help me find the rest of them?" she nearly whispered. Teal'c looked around at the mess she'd made of Daniel's office, then gave her a slight nod, sadness in his eyes, and Sam realized that he knew enough.

---SG1---

Over two hours since he'd first stormed over to Daniel's place, Jack found himself retracing the same route. The entire drive back to Daniel's place, Jack deemed himself an idiot. All he'd done was make things worse, and he just hoped that he'd get there in time to set things right again. Over and over, he cursed himself for blowing his top like that with Daniel, but dammit, the guy always had to push it right to the limit, didn't he?

_Christ,_ Daniel had even taken a swing at him. A year ago, hell, a _week_ ago, Jack wouldn't have thought Daniel capable of that. Sure, he'd learned to be good in a fight, when need be, but striking out at one of his friends? Not in a million years.

But it _had _happened. And Jack had been so close to hitting him right back. If Daniel hadn't looked at him like that, with that resigned mingling of fear and strange acceptance, waiting for it, Jack suspected that he _would_ have hit him. God knows, he'd been damned pissed off enough to do it.

And maybe, just maybe, Jack amended, he had been pushing some of Daniel's buttons, too. He knew Daniel had been acting like a loose cannon for days, hell, for _weeks_ now, and Jack, instead of trying to resolve the situation like he was supposed to do as team leader, and well, as the older, more mature one; he had to admit that he'd only made things worse. He'd gone over there looking for a fight.

Dammit.

Jack flashed back to those bottles. Up until the point when he saw all those damn bottles, he might have been able to rationalize away Daniel's behavior. But not after taking in the glass skylines of bottles on every counter and lining the floor. This time, it seemed as though Daniel was trying to do himself in. One bottle at a time.

Lost in thought, Jack nearly missed his turnoff. He swung wildly around the corner, waving off the angry blast of horn behind him. Parking on the street in front of the building, Jack climbed out of his truck, jogged up the front door of Daniel's building, nervously jangling his keys in his hand.

_What would he say?_

Up the elevator and down the hall. How would he explain his own behavior? He had gone to Daniel out of concern, right? After all, that's how it started, right? Things had just gotten a little out of hand, right? He honestly hadn't meant to lose his temper.

_Shit, how was he going to explain?_

Stepping in front of Daniel's door, Jack paused, scrubbed his hand across his face and took one more moment to plan his next move and nothing came to mind. Not a single, encouraging, apologetic word.

_Dammit, just wing it, O'Neill,_ he told himself, frustrated.

"Daniel?" he called out, opening the door with his spare key. The place was completely silent. No drone of the television or radio or stereo. No sounds at all, and it left Jack feeling cold and anxious.

Stepping from the hallway toward the kitchen, Jack called a little louder, "Daniel, you here?" The underlying smell of the apartment surrounded him—of something that had gone bad in the refrigerator. Like sour milk or moldering food. He froze when he saw the mess on the kitchen floor. Broken glass, scraps of garbage—rotten food, tissues, coffee grounds—strewn across the hardwood. Jack was stunned, transfixed with something close to horror. _Jesus._ Had he really done all that? Bitter acid roiled in his stomach, and he was again ashamed of himself, sickened by his actions.

He stepped farther into the kitchen and noticed the bloody streaks tracking the hall, followed by a clearly imprinted bloody half-footprint leading to Daniel's bathroom.

"Daniel!" Ice filled Jack's veins as he spun toward the bathroom. In that moment, Jack conjured all kinds of horrific images of Daniel lying bloody and shattered on the floor, bleeding from all kinds of self-inflicted wounds.

He heard a muffled thump coming from inside, and called out once again, "Daniel, you in there?" Not waiting for an answer, he threw open the door, all the while saying a quick prayer of thanks that the door wasn't locked.

Daniel darted his head up, startled by Jack's sudden appearance, as though he hadn't heard Jack come in. He sat huddled on the floor, his legs tucked up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees and pressing his back against the wall in the space between the shower and the toilet. Wearing nothing but a faded pair of sweatpants, Daniel's lips had a bluish cast, and he was visibly shaking. His wet hair was plastered to his skull and a washcloth was clumsily tied around his right hand. He stretched out his legs to try to stand up, and that was when Jack saw the open, still oozing cuts on the soles of his feet.

_Jesus. Dammit,_ Jack chanted in his head, just staring at his friend for a moment before his training kicked in. His knees protesting, he crouched down in front of Daniel, touching his bare shoulder, and was shocked by how cold he was. "Daniel, are you okay?"

Daniel nodded even though his teeth were rattling together with cold and probably shock.

"Yeah, right you are," Jack muttered, 'stupid question, huh?" He yanked a towel from the rod and wrapped it over Daniel's shoulders. "Stay here. Don't move," Jack ordered, getting painfully back to his feet and rushing from the bathroom. Stumbling over assorted garbage, Jack went into Daniel's bedroom, found an old, tattered robe hanging from the back of the door. He snatched it up and quickly made his way back to the bathroom. Daniel had managed to haul himself up from the floor and was sitting on the closed toilet seat, hunched over his legs, still shivering. Jack pulled the towel away and helped Daniel pull on the robe. It was too big and Jack tucked the collar snug around his friend's neck. As he leaned closer to the toilet, he caught a whiff of old vomit and had to bite back another curse.

"What the hell, Daniel?" Jack growled, vigorously rubbing his hands up and down Daniel's arms through the thick robe, trying to generate some heat, some response.

"T-took a c-cold sh-shower," Daniel managed through his rattling teeth. "Th-thought it might m-make me f-feel better…"

"Guess that wasn't such a good idea, now was it?" Jack said a little more gently, relieved that Daniel was at least coherent. And then he remembered the bloody footprint. He reached down for one of Daniel's cold feet, and peered at the underside. He crouched down to an uncomfortable level to get a better view, and in doing so rattled off an impressive string of curses.

"I'm fine," Daniel whispered, pulling his foot from Jack's grasp. "I'm okay. J-just gimme a minute…" he muttered, wrapping his arms tight around his chest. "W-what are you doing here anyway? Didn't you j-just leave?"

"Yeah, I did," Jack said, looking at his friend again. "And… yeah, I'm back," he added somewhat inanely. He dug around in the cupboard under the sink, tossing out cleaning supplies, soap and paper towel, until he found the first aid kit. Perching on the edge of the tub, Jack picked up Daniel's foot again and rested it on his knee. A weak attempt was made to gain back his foot, but Jack shot Daniel a warning look and held tight to his ankle. Daniel scowled at him, but held still.

Not allowing himself to think too much, Jack pressed peroxide-soaked gauze pads to the worst of the cuts. Daniel hardly registered the resulting sting, so Jack bandaged the cuts as quickly and as efficiently as he could. Then he took hold of Daniel's wrist, gently tugging until Daniel gave in and held out the injured one. Jack took great care unwrapping the stained washcloth, and as soon as it was off, he saw the deep, ragged cut and winced in sympathy.

Jack folded a towel and placed it under Daniel's hand. He poured more of the peroxide over it, dabbed some sterile gauze on the cut and then fashioned three of the closest approximations to a butterfly bandage he could devise, and applied them to the cut. He wrapped gauze around the hand and finally sat heavily on the tub rim. He took a long look at his friend, still hunched over a little, still shaking. Jack reached out a hand and lightly rubbed Daniel's back, trying to offer him some warmth, some atonement for earlier.

"It's gonna be okay," he said, but he wasn't sure if the reassurance was for his benefit, or for Daniel's.

Daniel whispered something, but it was so faint, Jack barely registered it.

"What's that?" he asked, leaning closer.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

"Yeah, me, too," Jack said glancing down a moment and clearing his throat. "What d'ya say we move this someplace a little more comfortable, huh?"

Daniel nodded and Jack took hold of him by the wrist and around his back. Daniel pulled away as soon as he was on his feet, but Jack hovered close as Daniel limped to the living room.

Jack carefully steered him away from the sight of the kitchen, and settled his friend on the couch. He picked up the blanket crammed in the one corner of the cushions and draped it over his friend, tucking it under Daniel's cold, bandaged feet.

"Stay put, all right?" he ordered again, but Daniel said nothing and sank down into the cushions, dropping his head back, and closing his eyes. Jack took that as an affirmative.

A quick assessment of the kitchen, and Jack set into effect his plan of attack. He turned on the water kettle, and while he waited for it to boil, he quickly swept up the broken glass. He only found one empty garbage bag, which was quicklly filled, and so he swept the rest of mess into the far back corner of the kitchen where it would be the least in the way. Carter would have to deal with it when she got here.

When the kettle whistled, he brewed a strong cup of tea and set it on the counter. While it cooled, he cleaned up the smears of blood from the floor.

Before carrying the steaming cup out to Daniel, Jack ladled in two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. He figured that Daniel was in some kind of shock, or withdrawal, or something to do with triglycerinigens or whatever the hell Janet had called it, and he knew the caffeine and sugar would help.

Jack perched on the coffee table in front of Daniel, holding the cup in his hands. "How you feeling?" he asked when Daniel darted a glance at him.

Daniel chuffed out a soft, sardonic laugh. "Not so good," he said quietly, his eyes bright with the onset of tears.

The admission caused another wave of guilt to pour over Jack.

Swiping a hand over his eyes, Daniel looked away from Jack stare at the rows and rows of multicolored spines of books on a tall shelf opposite the couch.

"Drink this," Jack told him, leaning forward to press the mug in Daniel's hands.

Daniel carefully accepted the mug, but made no moves to drink from it. He kept his gaze fixed on the shelf. He seemed to looking at something in particular, and Jack followed his gaze and noticed the old photos; one of Daniel as a kid, grinning and sitting on top of a camel, one with his parents, his mother sitting off to the side, nearly outside the frame of the shot. Jack supposed that maybe Daniel was thinking of happier times, better places than this, and Jack sure as hell couldn't blame him.

"Daniel. Drink. It'll help," Jack repeated, uncertain what to do, uncertain that Daniel was even aware of what he was holding.

Finally, Daniel nodded, and leaned over the steam, his hands shaking so badly the tea nearly splashed over the sides of the mug. Keeping his eyes averted from Jack's, he took a careful sip. "I didn't think I'd see you again," he said in a quiet, subdued voice. "Not until my suspension was up. That is, if I'm even still on the team."

"Never mind about that now," Jack said, leaning forward, trying to meet Daniel's gaze, but he still wouldn't look at him. "Daniel, I'm gonna ask you something and I want you to be straight with me, all right? No matter what your answer is, I promise that I'm not get mad or yell at you, I just… I want you to know that you can trust me, okay?" Daniel's gaze flicked in Jack's direction for a moment, but he didn't reply. "This has been going on for a lot longer than you've been letting on, hasn't it?"

Daniel tensed, and Jack thought he wasn't going to answer, but then he nodded.

"How long, Daniel?" Jack's voice was soft, but firm and unwavering. "How long have you been drinking?"

Daniel looked down, then took another sip of his tea before answering. "'For a long time," he answered in that same resigned voice. "Nearly my whole life, since I was twelve, I guess. But after Sha're… it's just... it's been harder to… to get it under control."

Jack was momentarily taken aback, stunned. "Jesus, Daniel." He thought back to all those times Daniel had turned up late for his briefings, for all those times he, Carter and Teal'c had spent waiting for him to turn up in the gateroom. Daniel had always passed off those lapses with the excuse of losing track of time, with having too many things to prepare, his typical, 'sorry, had my head in a book and forgot that it was Tuesday,' but how many times had those absent-minded excuses been flat-out lies?

Jack couldn't wrap his head around it. He simply couldn't figure out how Daniel had managed to hide it so well. Even after he'd had to rescue Daniel that one night downtown, Jack had never suspected anything of this magnitude. Not a thing. The enormity of what he had been trying to pull off, and had largely succeeded at up until these past few months, was mind-boggling. Jack tore a hand through his hair. He was suddenly developing one hell of a headache. But all that could wait - the details, everything else. Right now, he had take charge of this situation.

Taking a deep breath, he said, "Okay, well... we need to do something about this." Daniel finally met his gaze, his expression guarded, cautious, and Jack felt another pang of remorse for his own out of control behavior. He moved from the table to sit beside Daniel on the couch as a show of camaraderie, that he was on Daniel's side. "Listen, in a little while, Carter and Fraiser are coming over."

"What?" Daniel frowned, his eyelids blinking heavily. "Why?" He sat up a little straighter to give Jack more room and placed the nearly full mug on the coffeetable.

"Well, call it an intervention, of sorts," Jack said, turning so that he was sitting facing Daniel. "The lying, the covering up… it stops right here, and we're gonna help you get past this."

Daniel stared at Jack. "I… I can quit on my own."

"No, you can't, bud," Jack corrected. "Not anymore."

"Yes, I _can,"_ Daniel shot back a little desperately. "I've always been able to quit—"

Jack held up a hand, halting him. "Daniel. It's over. We're on to you, and you have two choices right now. One – you let us help you, and no one else has to know about this. Or two - Fraiser throws your ass in a rehab clinic, and I think we both know what'll happen to your career if it comes to that." He stopped and waited for his words to sink in.

Daniel shook his head, fury and barely suppressed terror warring for dominance on his features.

Jack met his gaze full-on. "What's it gonna be, Daniel?"

Daniel dropped his gaze. He tried to take a deep breath that nearly turned into a sob. He pressed his bandaged hand to his mouth, trying to halt the tears that wanted to come.

"Hey, it's gonna be all right." Jack leaned forward and grasped hold of Daniel's forearm. "We can get you through this. If you let us." Jack ducked his head a little to try to meet his friend's gaze, but Daniel refused to look at him.

"Daniel?"

Darting a glance at him, Daniel swiped his hand over his eyes and took another deep breath. Finally, he nodded. "Okay," he nearly whispered after a moment.

"Okay," Jack echoed, giving his friend's arm another quick, reassuring squeeze before letting go, and through the weary resignation, he could detect a glimmer of cautious hope in his friend's blue eyes. Jack knew that Daniel's simple affirmation meant that one battle had been fought and won.

The next, most difficult one, however hadn't even begun.

---SG1---

When Sam finally drove up to Daniel's apartment building, loaded down with cleaning supplies and heavy-duty garbage bags, she was surprised to see Jack just getting out of his truck. She had thought he was going to be at Daniel's long before she got there. Sam found a parking spot next to Jack's truck. In the rearview mirror, she took one last glance at her eyes, knowing they'd be all blotchy, no matter how much concealer she tried to apply. She sighed, rearranged her hair a little, got out of her car and went around to the trunk. "Colonel."

"Fancy seeing you here, Major," Jack said, reaching for a bag in the bed of his truck. He noticed how many bags Sam was attempting to juggle, so he locked up his truck and offered an arm for Sam to fill with bags.

"Carter?" Jack said, immediately noticing the puffiness around her eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." Sam placed a bag in Jack's arm, tried to smile, and said, "Janet here?"

"Yeah," he said, using his knee to find a better grip on the bags. "She's with Daniel. Sent me on an errand."

"How's… how is he doing?" Sam asked, slamming her trunk shut.

"For the most part, he's okay," Jack said, turning to make his way back to the apartment. "Doc's checking him over now though."

The two used Daniel's key to enter the building and his apartment. Before entering, Jack turned toward Sam. He felt he needed to warn her. He thought he had warned Doc Fraiser, but he knew by her reaction when she had first entered the apartment that he might have, sort of underplayed the actual state of the place. "Whatever you're imagining, double it. No, multiply it by a factor of…"

"I got it, sir," she said, peeking over his shoulder.

Even so, it wasn't enough. Sam thought that she was prepared for the sight based on what she had seen in Daniel's office, but this was so much worse. This once immaculate apartment looked as though it had been trashed and burglered. Artwork and artifacts were askew on the walls, tipped over on shelves. And everywhere she looked, bottles and glasses, everything was on the floor – clothes, books, papers.

She wouldn't cry. Not anymore.

"Hi, Sam," came Janet's quiet voice. The two women hugged. Over Janet's shoulder, Sam watched Jack clear a place for all the cleaning products, for his own bag. She saw him furtively glancing at the two women, and Sam had a moment to wonder if the colonel was hurting as much as she.

"How's Daniel?" Sam asked as she pulled back.

Janet cleared her throat, forced a smile, and said, "He's a mess, but I've got it under control. I gave him a Valium. His blood pressure was a little on the high side." She nodded in the direction of Daniel's bedroom. "You can go in, if you want."

"I… I wouldn't know what to say," Sam said, finding herself suddenly, ridiculously afraid to face her friend.

Janet touched Sam's elbow. "You don't have to say anything. Just the fact that you're here is good enough."

Passing the colonel, Sam paused to look into the bags. "Did I get everything we need?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think it'll do." Jack pulled a bottle of Lysol from one bag and set it on the counter. When he noticed Sam heading toward Daniel's bedroom, Jack said, "Remember the warning I gave you about this place?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm just sayin'… I've seem crack houses in better shape."

"I'll be all right," she said. She knew what he was trying to do - trying to distract her, and she was grateful to him for that.

When she opened the door to Daniel's room, she called out his name. Looking around the nearly dark room, she tried to take stock. It was almost as bad as the rest of the apartment, but not quite. Perhaps the decided lack of light helped mask most of it, or maybe he hadn't been spending that much time in here.

There was no sound from the still form buried under a mound of blankets. Sam padded across the room. She had to see him, she decided, invitation or not. "Daniel?" she called again, crouching down beside the bed.

Daniel turned over onto his side facing her, his eyes still closed. She was stunned by the pallor of his skin. His swollen eyes, rimmed with dark circles and the three day's worth of beard made him look far older than his years. A wave of remorse swept over her. She wondered if she had just said something sooner, if she had confronted him sooner, if hadn't tried so hard to cover up for him, then maybe it wouldn't have come to this. Maybe...

"Hey, Sam."

She blinked, pulled from her recriminations and tried to smile at him. "Hey," she echoed and rubbed his arm. "How are you doing?"

"I've been better," he said with a faint smirk, a glimmer of the old Daniel. After a moment, he sat up, leaning his back against the headboard. "Janet gave me something…" he said as he swiped a hand over his face, and blinked a few times. "it's making me a little… spacey."

"It's okay," she said softly. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. I'll just let you get some sleep. Sam started to get to her feet again.

"I… I'm sorry, Sam," Daniel nearly whispered, looking up at her, his voice wavering, his chin trembling. She stopped, then perched on the bed beside him, taking hold of his hand. "I didn't mean for this…"

"I just don't understand all this, Daniel," Sam admitted, and despite her best intentions not to cry anymore, tears filled her eyes, her throat tightened. "How could this happen? How could you let it go this far?"

"I don't know," Daniel said, and his breath hitched. "I just... I couldn't stop. I couldn't..." He looked down at their joined hands and tears spilled down his face.

Sam leaned forward, cupped the back of his head and gently touched her brow to his temple. His skin was hot, clammy, and in this close, she could feel his entire body trembling.

"I'm sorry," he quietly said again. Sam pulled him into her arms, and after a moment, he returned her embrace, tucking his chin against her shoulder.

Sam held tightly to her friend, as though she'd never let him go, and she supposed she needed some forgiveness, too.

---SG1---

Janet ladled the soup into the bowl, placed a sleeve of crackers next to it, and took a deep breath to steel her resolve. She'd need it. In the last day, even the most trivial request or minor question directed toward Daniel was met with either snappish derision or petulant silence. It was part of the process, she knew. Well, the scientist in her knew. The friend couldn't help but feel more than a little pissed off.

Jack, flipping through a newspaper while sprawled out on the couch, offered, "You want me to go get him?"

"No," Janet said, although, truth be told, she would have preferred it. "No, I'll get him. I'm sure it's my turn."

"Suit yourself," Jack shrugged.

Janet padded off to Daniel's bedroom door, all the while realizing how very tired she was. After she had arrived and assessed Daniel's condition, she'd decided to dose him with Librium, sedate him properly so that he could rest.

Then, Jack, Sam and she had spent the better part of two days cleaning his apartment, carrying garbage bag after garbage bag down to the dumpster, and searching through his belongings in order to find hidden contraband.

Now and again, they'd check on him, one at a time, trying not to wake him, or aggravate him. A few times, Jack was called into service to help Daniel into the bathroom. Through it all, Daniel was largely silent.

But now, the Librium had worn off, and Daniel had refused any further medication. He was over the most serious withdrawal symptoms, but this next level—headaches, sweating, anxiety--was almost as difficult to ride out.

"Daniel," she said, tapping on his door. "Daniel? I have some soup for you." When there was no reply, Janet slid open the door and peeked inside.

He was sitting hunched on the end of the bed, holding his head tightly, as though he was afraid it would explode, and Janet knew that his headaches were getting unbearable.

"Daniel? You okay?" she asked, taking measured steps toward him. She had a bag full of all sorts of pills that would help. All he needed to do was ask.

"Daniel, how can I help?"

"Just… leave," he ground out through clenched teeth.

"I mean how can help you manage your—"

"By leaving."

"Okay," she said, brushing the loose hair from her forehead, fatigue weighing down her shoulders. "Let's take another route. Daniel, I made you some soup. Would you like to come out and eat, or would you like me to bring it in here?"

"I don't want any."

"You need to eat."

"You don't know what I need."

"Okay, then why don't you tell me what you need?"

Daniel considered the request, and raised his head, his eyes bloodshot. "Look, I've done this before. I know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Taper off."

"Daniel—"

"What I need—what I _want_ is a shot of gin," he interrupted. "Two…two shots. Just to take the edge off. That's all."

"You want me to bring you a drink."

"Yes," he said, nodding, his fingers twining together. "See, I think…I know I would be much more successful, more comfortable if I could just—"

"Daniel, I'm not going to allow you to drink and you know that."

Daniel stared at her, his wide eyes suddenly flashing with anger. He visibly forced it back, chewed on his lip a moment, then stood and began pacing. "You… you don't understand how this works."

"Daniel," Janet began, closing her eyes, finding she, too, had quite a headache, "this is part of the addiction and the withdrawal symptoms that I explained to you."

Daniel kept pacing and threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Well, you asked me how you could help! And I told you!"

"Daniel, I was asking about your obvious pain levels," Janet said as patiently as she could. "You don't need to suffer like this."

"And I told you that I wouldn't be in any pain if you… you _people_ would just let me…let me go through this on my own!"

"Is there a problem?" Jack asked, entering the room.

Janet sighed, turning to face Jack. "Daniel would like me to get him a drink."

"Yeah, right," Jack snorted, "like _that's_ gonna happen."

Daniel stopped pacing to lean up against the wall, his arms woven tightly around his head.

"Look, Daniel," Jack said, "Doc made you some lunch. Now here are your options; you eat, or you don't. You'll notice that nowhere in that list did I include a drink."

"Leave me alone," Daniel nearly pleaded.

"What's your decision?" Jack asked.

"I said leave me alone!" came the muffled, angry reply.

"I guess that's a 'no' to the lunch," Jack said to Janet.

"I guess it is,' Janet agreed, and she and Jack shut the door on their way out, leaving Daniel alone in the room.

Daniel began pacing again. They didn't understand. Or, he thought, maybe they did understand, but maybe they just wanted to see him suffer. Oh, and he _was_ suffering. Every vein in his body felt like frayed electrical wires; his skin crawled, pulling taut over the hard ache of bones. And his head—a constant pounding, right behind his eyes. He leaned his forehead against the wall and pressed his palms against his skull. It didn't help. His jaws ached from grinding his teeth together, only adding to the pressure in his head.

A prisoner in his own home, he snorted. Jack and Janet—they were the two guards outside his door, who stood between this madness and his sanity.

"Just one fucking drink!" he bellowed. He was fairly sure he wouldn't get a response.

But this pain, this razor-blade slicing of pain was too much. He dug his nails into his scalp, and finally called out for Janet.

In the kitchen, Janet exchanged a glance with the colonel, and waited for Daniel to call out her name again.

"Janet!"

"I believe I'm being beckoned," she said, rubbing a hand over her forehead.

"Want me to go talk to him?"

"No, I can handle him."

"While you're in there, ask him if he has anything better to read," Jack requested, depositing himself back on the couch. "Some Tom Clancy, Stephen King, I'm not fussy."

"I'll see what I can do." Once again, Janet returned to Daniel's bedroom, not bothering to knock on the door. She found him leaning up against the wall, breathing hard, his features pinched with pain.

"Yes, Daniel."

Admitting that he was in pain was admitting he was in withdrawal. Admitting he needed something to ease the pain was admitting that he couldn't handle it, even though he knew he deserved this punishment. He'd let this go way too long, and this misery was all his own damn fault, but still, he'd had enough. His bruised and battered pride had capitulated long ago, but even still, it was hard to say the words, to give in.

"You gave me something in Egypt," he said, refusing to look Janet in the eye.

"Beta blockers."

_Please don't make me say anymore,_ he thought, biting his lip.

"I'll be right back," Janet said gently, sympathetically, and he wanted to weep with gratitude, but he didn't. He held it together until she got back. He choked down the medication and waited for it to take hold. Even when it did, he still wanted a drink so badly he could almost taste it.

* * *

--- tbc ---


	15. Reparations pt 7

**Disclaimer: **Stargate SG1 and its characters are property of Stargate (II) productions and their respective owners. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money was exchanged. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Of all the aches and pains assailing him, Daniel would have had to say that his back hurt the worst. It could have been the intermittent retching from the constant nausea, or possibly the near-constant tremors, but more than likely, it was the long hours spent in bed sleeping. Either way, he had to get up, and if he left the room, he was going to need… something.

What he didn't need was another one-sided heart-to-heart with whoever was the counselor du jour.

Weighing the difference between spending another minute in his cloying bedroom, or chancing having to speak to another person, Daniel reluctantly chose the latter and dragged himself from bed. He rolled to his side, coughed, and tried to focus. Okay, next step: sit up. He clenched the sheets, steadying himself, waiting out the nauseating vertigo. He pulled in a shaky breath, coughed up what felt like half a lung, and slapped his hands to his burning kidneys.

_Great_, he thought, _I either have pneumonia, or I'm going through kidney failure…_

And still, he needed.

With the help of his cluttered nightstand, he pushed away from his bed. Standing seemed to relieve some of the ache in his lower back. He decided he knew exactly what else he needed right now. Padding into the living room, he made a beeline for his desk. He steadied himself on the back of the chair and scanned the surface of the desk. He fully expected to see the pack of cigarettes right on top. He slapped away a few papers and scattered the books.

"Looking for something?"

He jumped, almost forgetting that Jack was in the apartment. Daniel, his mouth gaping in surprise, shook his head, irritated with himself and turned back to the desk.

"I threw all the bottles away. Even the hidden ones. You're very creative," Jack said, casually flipping the pages of Daniel's "Athena Review."

"I'm not-" Daniel began.

"Is this magazine always so boring?" Jack interrupted.

"A pack of cigarettes," Daniel finished, blurting out the words. "I'm looking for my cigarettes. And that's a quarterly, not a magazine."

"Excuse me?"

"I had a pack, right here." Daniel scowled and looked some more through the cubbyholes. "Somewhere."

"Since when do you smoke?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

"Kind of comes with the territory?" Jack said, raising an eyebrow.

"Something like that. Daniel tore open the top drawer again, hoping the pack would miraculously surface, but no such luck. "Dammit!"

"Can you describe them?"

"Camels. A whole, unopened pack. God dammit, Jack! Have you seen them, or not?"

Jack lost interest in the game, all the while seeming to almost enjoy Daniel's spectacular annoyance. Jack ambled over to the kitchen and picked up the missing pack of cigarettes off the top of the refrigerator. "I suppose you'll need the lighter, too." Daniel only glared at him in reply. After a moment's search, Jack came up with the lighter, and handed both to him, who all but ran out onto the balcony.

"You're welcome," Jack called after him.

Daniel tore at the cellophane wrapper and barely managed to yank out the first cigarette before his shaking hands lost grip. The cigarette fell to the balcony floor, where the light breeze whisked it away and over the edge.

"Fucking hell!" Daniel shook the pack once again, managing to grab hold of the second cigarette. Fingers trembling wildly, he brought the cigarette to his lips, lifted the lighter, and tried to steady his hands. Once, twice he tried to work the lighter and nearly dropped it both times. The lighter quaked in his hands; the cigarette bounced in his lips. Wrapping both hands around the lighter, he cursed and gave it another try.

It was too pathetic to watch. Jack remembered having been on that bitter, hairy edge of need once upon a dark and nasty time. And as much as he wanted Daniel to suffer through this—the whole, tough, suck it up lesson—even Jack couldn't watch this kind of suffering. He stepped onto the balcony, stood next to Daniel, and held out his hand. Daniel stared at him, knowing full well what Jack meant by the gesture, and that in and of itself was infuriating. Jack snapped his fingers a few times and held his hand open again. Rolling his eyes, Daniel slapped the lighter into it. With one controlled flick of his thumb, Jack lit it and cupped his hand around the flame, leaning in close to Daniel. Unfortunately, the younger man was shaking so badly that Jack feared he'd accidentally wind up burning his lips off.

"Ah, jeez," Jack muttered, snatching the cigarette from Daniel's mouth and placing it between his own lips. Jack lit up, closed one eye against the smoke, and waited until the end changed to embers. He pulled the lit cigarette from his mouth, exhaled into the morning air, and placed it between Daniel's lips. Waving his hand to fan the smoke away from him, Jack coughed.

Daniel ignored him and turned to face the railing, stared unseeing at the view and inhaled deeply, relishing the first modicum of control he'd had in days. With one arm wrapped around his midsection, his back hunched against the chilled air and the dull ache in his back, he inhaled one long drag after another. Smoke curled above his head, where the wind drew it into a dance.

Watching his friend sucking in the smoke so deeply that his cheeks hollowed out with every puff, Jack couldn't stand seeing him like this; haggard, too thin, too pale, at such a low, debilitating point in his life. He knew Daniel well enough to know that Daniel hated it even more.

Jack took a seat in the rattan chair off to the side and gave his friend some space. He watched Daniel pace the far end of the balcony, watched the glowing orange end of the cigarette burn down. So many questions, so many unanswered speculations were wrapped up in that mind, wrapped up in the rigid posture of the man before him.

Ten years earlier, it would have been Jack in this place, pacing, hunched around his misery. Ten years earlier—had it really been that long ago?—it would have been Jack rifling through the barren landscape of his own soul, searching the dusty remains for a reason to buck up, to go on.

_You're killing yourself, O'Neill,_ his old CO had told him when the reality of Jack's abuse of painkillers became too obvious to ignore. _You're destroying your career, your commission and your health. Get a hold of yourself, O'Neill._

And Jack did. He got a hold of himself by popping twice the amount of pills. Besides, prescribed medication wasn't killing him. Four months in an Iraqi prison was the true culprit. Those four months, with a skull fracture and a third-world repair to his knee, were truly the destroyer of his world. The painkillers simply allowed him to survive the death of everything else.

So what if his addiction to Percocet and Vicodin was a death unto itself? With the right combination, it didn't matter. Many, many days and nights Jack had found the right combination. Many, many days and nights were lost.

How many days of Charlie's short life had he missed?

How many days had Daniel missed? What was he trying to kill?

So many questions needed to be asked.

Jack shifted in his chair. He wanted to be able to see Daniel better, to see if the shaking had subsided. He wanted some sign that he could ask him some of those questions, that the questions wouldn't shake him up even more. When he saw Daniel raise a fairly controlled hand to his mouth and snap off a long, gray ash off what little was left of his cigarette, Jack decided to march ahead.

"So, Daniel—"

"I need…" Daniel began, cutting him off, then seemed to think better of using a word that constituted all his miseries. He drew in the final hit off his cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and ground it out. "I, uh… I want another one."

The tension in his face alone told Jack that Daniel should have stuck with his original word. He needed, all right, and Jack couldn't help another wave of empathy towards his friend. Jack stood up, tapped another cigarette from the pack, lit it, and handed it to him.

Daniel, humiliated once again, focused on the glowing end of his cigarette and began pacing again. He stopped at the far end of the balcony, turned to the city once again. Somewhere down there were the cold nights spent in D'Angelo's bar, the damp early mornings spent at the Sticky Wicket, and the anonymous afternoons with the other desperados at Jake's. In between were the equally anonymous moments spent buying bottle after bottle of increasingly cheaper spirits. Somewhere down there were six lost months.

"Believe it or not," Daniel said, turning to Jack, startling him, and waving his cigarette. "But I hate these things. Always have."

"Nasty habit," Jack agreed, as though he himself hadn't smoked for the better of fifteen years when he was too young to know better. Since Daniel had made the first attempt at conversation, Jack decided now was as good a time as any to clear some things up. "So, uh, you think you might want to talk for a minute?"

Daniel drew in a long toke and pulled the cigarette from his mouth. "About what?" he asked, smoke streaming from his nostrils.

"Like the apartment full of bottles Carter and I spent cleaning up, for starters," Jack waited for a caustic reply, a surly barb. Instead, all he got was a quick nod, and Daniel sucked in another long puff. "Those sure as hell weren't here a few months ago."

Daniel tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette over the street below and watched them dissipate into the air. "No, they weren't," he admitted, returning the cigarette to his mouth.

" So what happened?" Jack said. "You sure as haven't been drinking that heavily all your life or you would have killed yourself a long time ago. How long have you been…been…"

"Binge drinking?"

"Yeah."

"About the same time I started smoking."

"Which was…"

"I don't know. Around April, I guess."

"Just about the same time—"

"As when Sha're died," Daniel finished quietly.

Jack cursed under his breath. He should have known better; he _did_ know better. After he'd picked up Daniel from phonebooth that miserable night, he should have taken that cry for help a little more seriously. And he sure as hell shouldn't have expected a promise and a pat on the back to make it all better. He had miscalculated, what they had all miscalculated, was Daniel's resilience. All of a sudden, Jack felt the crush of personal responsibility.

"It's not your fault," Daniel said, resting his elbows on the railing, all but reading Jack's mind, as he'd always done. "I _have_ been hiding my drinking for nearly all my life, remember? I'm pretty good at it."

"Yeah, well," Jack started, pushing out of his chair and joining Daniel at the railing, "I hate to break this to you, but you kinda blew your cover."

Daniel smiled a little at that. "I guess I did."

Jack massaged the back of his neck, gazing down at the city; ant-like people bustling around, toy cars driving stopping, driving stopping. "Why didn't you talk to me, Daniel?" Jack blurted, asking the one question that had been niggling at him, tormenting him all along, turning toward his friend, but not quite making eye contact with him. "You could have come to me, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know," Daniel said, not looking at him either and sucking in a quick draw. "It was easier just to drink, I suppose. It's what I've always done." Eyes lowered, mouth set in a tight line, he exhaled a quick blast of smoke through his nose.

"You know, I honestly had no idea it was ever this bad," Jack said, wondering how many times he'd been completely oblivious to his friend's pain, and again, he was completely bowled over by Daniel had managed this for so long. "Just out of curiosity, how often would you say you've been drunk in the, oh, last six months?"

"How many days are there in half a year?" Daniel asked.

"That many?"

"Give or take."

"Jesus, Daniel."

"Yeah." When you break it down like that, it sounds pretty…"

"Bad."

"Yeah."

"You know, when I was twelve, I was playing Little League," Jack said, suspecting all too well what would drive a kid to that desperation.

"Count yourself lucky then," Daniel said almost abruptly and Jack knew that was a conversation for another day. Daniel took a final puff then put it out against the rough metal of the railing.

"So what's the next step after this?" Jack asked quietly.

Daniel slowly ran his fingers across his brow, as though he had another headache, and said, "I really wish I knew."

"Okay, well, it's fairly obvious you need to—I don't know—join Triple A, or something."

Daniel blinked at him, confused. "I already _have_ car insurance, and that... that dent in my car-"

Jack stared at him a moment. "No. No, AA. Alcoholic's Anonymous. You know, or something like that."

Daniel chuffed out a soft laugh and leaned his elbows on the railing, his gaze drifting back to the horizon. "I already tried that."

"You did?" Jack said, surprised. "How'd that go?"

"Well... it was a month or so ago."

"So, not that well."

"No." Daniel shook his head. "I'm…I'm not like those people, Jack. I've never needed to drink every day, and I've quit before and I can do it again."

"Doesn't the very fact that you've been binge drinking your entire life before suggest something about your success rate? Or lack thereof?"

"I don't know what to do, Jack," Daniel admitted, turning his head to look at him, and Jack heard the hopelessness in the words, saw the bleak despair in his shadowed eyes. "I... I don't think I can go back there."

"Is it possible you went to a meeting when you weren't ready to accept that you… _are_ like them?" And with those words came the reappearance of the shaking hands, the tightening of his features. "Daniel, listen to me: I don't have a clue what you should do. But it seems to me you gotta find some professional help."

"But it's... it's never been this... bad before," Daniel choked out, somewhere between an embarrassed laugh and a shame-filled cry.

"That's how it works, Daniel. Every addict figures he has it all under control, and you _do._ For a while. You manage. You function, and then, all of sudden the addiction becomes everything. Nothing else matters - your family, your job, your _life. _Nothing. All that matters is getting that fix, and _that's_ why it's come down to this." Jack knew this was a crossroads, and it was the time for clarity, for purpose, and for honest words, no matter how painful.

"The fact of the matter is…" he began, at the same time, he wondered if he could speak the truth. He narrowed his eyes, took a breath and started again, his voice soft and insistent. "The fact of the matter is I can't let you back on the team until you get this under control. I can't put Carter and Teal'c in that kind of jeopardy."

"I know," Daniel said, dropping his head. I understand."

"I guess it comes down to how badly you want to stop this."

For Daniel, it was a different question: _Could_ he stop? Did he have the strength to be sober? Nights were terrifying, long and cold. The pain was too sharp. Faces and accusations clanged discordantly all day long in his mind. The tumblers of Scotch and ice evened it all out.  
Could he stop what he'd been doing all his life?

"What's it gonna be, Daniel?"

Here in the cold, the soon-to-be darkness, Daniel twined his fingers around each other, until his knuckles were white with tension. A tension, that uncontrollable tension that sat so heavily in his chest, was building toward a cry, so he rasped his conjoined hands against his stubbled chin. The tears would just have to dry up in the breeze.

"Daniel?"

"Can you light me another cigarette?"

Jack nodded, tapped another cigarette out of the pack, lit it, and handed it carefully to him. Daniel took it with a nod of thanks, and Jack was relieved to see that his hands were only trembling just a little - the nicotine must be having some effect.

"It's getting colder out here." Jack rubbed his hands over his sleeves. He'd said all he was going to right now, and really, it came down to a single decision. For Daniel to realize that he had to stop doing this to himself and get his life back on track. Jack just wasn't sure if his friend had reached that point yet, and it scared the hell out of him.

"Daniel," he said, watching while Daniel drew in one long, staccato inhalation, where his haggard face glowed orange behind the breathing embers, "you wanna go inside?"

"I never smoke in the apartment."

"There are rules to these things?"

"More than you'll ever know," Daniel said with a faint, sad smile. Slowly, his fingers lessened their grip on each other and the cigarette. Slowly, his breathing became more fluid and some of the tension left his body. "I should," he paused and cleared his throat, "um, probably try again. Try a... a little harder this time."

"Yeah, I think you're right," Jack said as casually as he could, even while a surge of relief, of hope coursed through him.

"I guess I've known for a long time."

"And by a long time, you mean…" Jack asked, titling his head, uncertain. Daniel just shook his head, and that was okay. They had plenty of time to talk later.

But for now... words disappeared. Enough truth had been spoken; enough promises. Jack understood by the quick spasms of breath that Daniel had reached his limit of how much was willing to admit at this point. He also realized that Daniel probably needed time to digest this huge realization.

Stepping away from the railing, Jack gave Daniel's elbow a quick squeeze, and said, "It's damn cold out here. Think I'll go in." Daniel nodded, bent further, until his forehead rested atop his clasped hands on the railing. "Why don't you—"

"It goes away."

Jack wasn't sure if it was the sadness in Daniel's words that got to him, or the enigmatic words themselves. Either way, he pivoted back toward Daniel, a step or two behind him. "How's that?"

"Every time I think I have it under control, it… it just goes away." And with one hitch in his breath, Daniel's knees buckled. Jack lunged for him, but found that Daniel wasn't collapsing. Merely hunkering down. He held tight to the railing, his forehead pressed against the cool Plexiglas. "It scares me, Jack, because sometimes… sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get it back. Completely back."

"You will."

"You don't know that." With a toss, Daniel's spent cigarette floated to the pavement below.

"Well, I've found that you can be pretty determined when you set your mind to something," Jack said. "In fact, you're the most stubborn son of bitch I know, so, if anyone can do this-"

"Jack, I've known that I'm an… I mean, I've accepted that, where alcohol is concerned," Daniel broke in, his voice a little muffled. "I'm, uh…" Puffs of air condensed on the glass in front of his face, and Jack could just make out the tortured expression on Daniel's face in the reflection. "But I swear to God, sometimes I really can't differentiate between the why and the why not. Sometimes, Jack, I just think—" His voice dissolved into a barely suppressed sob.

"I think it means you're tired. You've been through hell. Let's go inside."

"No..." Daniel whispered, rocking his head against the pane. "Everything I do... it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't make any difference. It never has."

"Daniel," Jack said, exasperated, "look, right now, nothing has any sense, okay? Give yourself a break, would ya? Come inside. I'll make you something to eat. Come on."

"I don't know if I can do this, Jack. I don't know what to do."

And with that quietly whispered fear, Jack pulled the rattan chair close to his friend and lowered himself into the seat.

"It's gonna be okay," Jack said as firm and resolute as he could. Reaching out, he grasped hold of Daniel's shoulder. When Daniel glanced at him, surprised by the contact, Jack held his tear-filled gaze, offering his friend his own strength. "We'll figure it out, Danny," he whispered, and found a knot forming in his own throat. He squeezed Daniel's shoulder a little tighter. "We'll get your through this."

---SG1---

Jack didn't know what was worse in those next days, the quiet agitation, or the way the day's light seemed to slide over Daniel's features, morning to night, without Daniel saying a word or moving from his place at the window in the living room.

Finally, Jack decided Daniel's non-stop introspection was over and that he needed to get some air.

And so it was that that morning, when the sun was still long from cresting the horizon, Jack gathered Daniel's clothes and shoes and dumped them on his lap.

"You need to get out," Jack said, when Daniel turned his head to scowl at him. "Get dressed. We're going out."

Daniel shoved the clothes to the floor and shook his head. He looked back at the view outside the window, a focus he had maintained for hours.

"Daniel, let's go." Jack grabbed his arm and gave him a tug, which elicited a barely comprehensible snarled curse as Daniel snatched his arm back.

"Right. I'm so scared," Jack said rolling his eyes. "If you want to get dressed fine. If not, you're going out in those rank sweats you've worn for the past two days. Either way, we're leaving in five minutes."

"Where?"

"Hey, it speaks!" Jack crowed.

_"Where_ are we going?" Daniel repeated through gritted teeth.

"Quandary Peak," Jack said, liking the double entendre of Daniel's predicament and one of Colorado's fourteeners.

"Lovell Gulch," Daniel amended, choosing an easier trail, without elevation.

"We'll work up to Quandary," said Jack, masking his surprised pleasure that Daniel was actually willing and on board.

Once there, even that trail proved to be difficult for Daniel as he slogged through the minor crags and hills. The next morning was a little easier. By the fourth day, on the Kroenke Lake trail, Daniel was outpacing Jack.

Even so, the quiet continued. Jack didn't mind. It wasn't important that they talk. It was important that Daniel get out and exercise, replace one activity with another. That natural adrenaline was a good for alleviating withdrawal symptoms. He'd learned that watching Doctor Phil one afternoon, an admission he wasn't about to make to anyone, even under the threat of Goa'uld infestation.

On the fifth day, Jack decided The Crags would be a great workout—a little rock climbing, a nice stream. He'd bring his fishing pole. Nothing like a little catch and release to heal the spirit.

But unlike the last four days, when Daniel pushed himself through the hike, on this day, Daniel lagged. After a difficult ascent up a particularly rocky trail, Jack suggested they take a break. He told Daniel to drink some water, eat one of his protein bars. Again in silence, they rested, and both of them ate their snacks and drank their water.

When Jack was about to say that it was time to get started again, Daniel rose from his spot and walked to the edge of the trail, overlooking the valley below. Jack had a moment where the hairs on his arms stood at attention, hoping Daniel wasn't stupid enough to get too close, to...

"Jack, did you ever read my personal file?" Daniel asked, which surprised Jack.

"Oh, Daniel, you know me and paperwork," Jack offered, and when Daniel's brow furrowed in frustration, Jack knew it wasn't the time to be anything but honest. "Yeah. Of course I did. Long time ago."

"Then you know about what happened after my… my parents died," Daniel said.

"Some of it." Jack tucked his water bottle into his pack and rose to stand alongside Daniel. The canyon below was dizzying.

"You know about the…foster care?"

"Like I said, I read your file years ago. Daniel," Jack began, hoping to give Daniel a way out of this conversation. By the way Daniel squinted his eyes and set his jaw, Jack knew this wasn't going to be a warm and fuzzy story.

It was true, Jack had read Daniel's file. He was required to read it before Daniel joined SG1. At the time, he thought he'd find the ordinary: education, childhood indiscretions, etc. What he found were police reports, medical records, court proceedings. The kind of thing an employer would never see, but a military installation seeking to give top-secret clearance to a person would have access to. Jack never forgot those reports, nor the garish, awful picture of a boy he never knew, but who had turned into the man he would learn to trust with his life.

"Among my many placements over the years, one of them was with a couple, the Davies," Daniel said. Jack braced himself, not only for his own reaction, but for the obvious pain it brought Daniel.

Jack remembered the picture—a mug shot, really, of a boy with a bruised face and a split, swollen lip. But what was worse, was the apathy in that child's eyes, the complete and utter lack of care. It was a stoicism borne of pain and betrayal, loss. How often had Jack seen it in the last years…

"Mr. Davies was a real son of a bitch, ya know?" Daniel said, letting go with a forced smile, which fooled neither of them. "Control freak, bully—that sort of thing. I'll never know why Child Welfare would… although he _did_ put on a pretty good front. The picture of the model all-American citizen."

The memory had cost Daniel, and Jack did the only thing he could—gaze at the spectacular view, give his friend some space.

"His wife, Dolores, she was nice. She was good to me, but she was…" Daniel began. How could he put into words what he spent years trying not to remember? "Well, she got the worst of it. She couldn't protect herself, let alone me. And I was too young to protect myself, even though I tried sometimes. Most of the time it was just bullying, you know, yelling, berating, beating you down, but sometimes... sometimes he got violent. Once time, he threw me so hard against the closet door in my bedroom that it flew off its hinges, all because I forgot to pick up my clothes from the floor. There was nothing I could do to stop him, but then I... I figured out how I could escape, at least for a while, for a few hours a day. He always kept his liquor cabinet well stocked, and he never suspected a thing. And... and that's when I started drinking."

"When you were twelve?" Jack asked, though it all made sense now. He couldn't help the rush of anger towards the unseen man who had driven his friend to such desperation, to such a dark place that he had never truly been able to escape.

"Yeah. Fourteen when I… when I was removed." Daniel closed his eyes for a moment, a nervous energy cruising through his body. He took a deep breath and held the air in his lungs until his chest began to ache. "Anyway, that's why I wasn't playing Little League, or doing all the things that normal kids are supposed to do. Not that I ever _was_ a normal kid... but I... I thought I owed you an explanation."

"You don't owe me anything," Jack said gently.

"No, I _do_ owe you an apology," Daniel said, turning to Jack. He swallowed hard and kept going. "A proper one. And I _am_ sorry, Jack, for all the…" He wondered how he could apologies for things he barely remembered. He cleared his throat and tried again. "For all of it. I don't know what else to say."

"It's enough," Jack said, stepping close to his friend and clapping his hand on his arm. "Apology accepted."

"Thank you," Daniel said, ducking his head to quickly swipe his sleeve over his eyes.

"But you gotta know, Daniel, it's going to be a long time before—"

"Before you completely trust me again. I know."

Jack nodded, wishing the truth weren't so evident. "Just keep doing what you're doing."

"One day at a time, as they say," Daniel offered, the cynicism clear in his voice.

"Have you ever wanted to look him up?" Jack asked, as the thought came to him.

"Davies?" Daniel asked, and Jack nodded. "Every couple years I do an internet search. I don't know why. He's still around. Still lives in the same place. Both of them."

"You ever want to show up on his door step?"

"Why?"

"I don't know," Jack shrugged. "Clear the air? Punch his lights out?"

Daniel shook his head, loosened the cap on his water bottle, tightened it back up. "Wouldn't change things."

"Maybe not," Jack agreed. "And maybe it would."

"How?" Daniel asked, searching Jack's expression. "I'd have still found my way to the bottle, with or without Davies. I'm pretty sure of that," he said thinking of genetic predisposition and fate and all those things that he'd tried so hard not to believe in. "Besides, what would I say?"

"I'm not sure."

"Exactly." Daniel nervously unscrewed the cap once again on his water bottle, looked down into its contents, and could only manage to shake his head.

"Good point," Jack agreed.

Daniel shifted his feet, scuffing his hiking shoes in the dirt.

"So, uh," Jack began, sensing the growing agitation in his friend. _Time to get movin',_ he thought. "So... it's starting to get late."

"Yeah."

"Why don't we..."

"Yeah." Daniel nodded and glanced at him.

With that, the water bottles were put away, the GPS was adjusted, and two friends made their way down that same path, back to where they began.

---SG1---

Daniel knew he didn't want to go back to that community center. It was just one more site of negativity. He knew enough about himself that the sheer institutionalization of the place would excuse enough to never go back, to never give this a fair shake.

Instead, he went online and did a search on Colorado Springs AA meetings, and was shocked at just how many there were, how often, and the variety in gathering places.

One that caught his eye was at 6 AM, every morning, at a place called Ute Pass. Daniel knew it well. There was a covered picnic area at the trailhead. It would be perfect.

Well, as perfect as going to an AA meeting could be.

At 4:30am on a dark, cold Tuesday, fully ten days after his last drink, alarm clock blaring, Daniel dragged himself from bed and then from his apartment. He stopped to buy a cup of industrial-strength gas station coffee and made his way to the trailhead. He thought he'd be more nervous, more anxious about willingly attending an AA meeting, one where he was prepared to listen with an open mind, but for some reason, he instead felt calm, accepting, even.

When he arrived at the pavilion, there were a couple dozen people gathered under the lodgepole pine and tin structure. Daniel gathered up his coffee, buttoned up his leather jacket, and joined the rest. He chose a seat near the periphery of the group and was tremendously relieved when no one offered him any pamphlets or other unsolicited information. He simply sat down, wrapped his hands around the warm paper cup of his coffee, and listened.

A young man with tanned skin and longish hair, handsome in a scholarly, bookish way and not much older than Daniel, stood up from his chair, his hands in his black North Face coat.

"My name is Jason," he said, bouncing slightly on his toes. The entire group welcomed him, including Daniel. "I'm an alcoholic. I've been sober for three years and five weeks. I've always been one to come to the party late, so it took me a long time to realize I was one of _them_. You know what I'm talking about. We're not one of _them_. We're too smart, too educated, too upwardly mobile to be one of them, an alcoholic," he said, running his hand through his hair, a smile highlighting his features. "Yeah, well, guess what? I'm one of them. I'm an alcoholic.

"I'm a sociology professor at a college in the area, and I absolutely knew that alcoholics were people outside of academia," Jason continued. "They had to be. Yeah, sure, there were differences between the way I drank and the way my colleagues drank. For instance, when we'd go out, they'd all be sipping their first drink, and I'd be on my fourth or fifth. When my friends started to notice how I could throw down drinks, I started excusing myself from the table. I'd go to the bar, drink a couple, go back to my seat, and say I had been on the phone."

A few nervous twitters floated over the crowd. Daniel found himself staring at this articulate, charismatic man, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. So much of the man's story was his own.

"We're very good at hiding, aren't we?" Jason said with a cynical smirk. "I never understood how the others, how my friends and family were able to stop at one or two, and I stopped only when I passed out. Finally, the scientist in me came up with the answer. This difference had nothing to do with logic or control. It had nothing to do with willpower, or the lack thereof. And it certainly," he said, and paused to laugh to himself. "It certainly had nothing to do with my morality, which I was led to believe by certain people. It had to do with the way my brain works. Once I surrendered to that fact, I started to get better."

Jason lifted a steaming cup of coffee, took a sip, and looked out over the mountain range. "Cold this morning, isn't it?" Random people nodded, voiced their agreement, and the general consensus was that he was correct. "So here I am, a little over three years sober. I'd like to say I've become a better person in those three years, more family-oriented, a better teacher, more tidy around the house. I haven't. But I have been sober, and that, in and of itself, is something. It's something huge. And that's why I keep coming to our little pavilion in the sky."

Jason smiled a little shyly at everyone before sitting back down, and Daniel felt somehow invigorated. For the first time in years, that part of his soul that felt abandoned and alone was being filled, and it was almost overwhelming, almost too much. There was a long silence as everyone looked around at one another, some chatting quietly amongst themselves. And then Daniel found himself on his feet, even before he had a chance to think about it.

"Um, hi," he said, and the group turned toward him. "My name is…Daniel. And... and I'm an alcoholic." An older man closest to him to Daniel said hello, and Daniel nodded at him, then continued. "It's been ten days since my last drink." A few "good jobs" were thrown out from the crowd. Daniel looked over the gathering of people. They all looked like him—ordinary, intelligent people. People who had more to gain than to lose. "I think…I think that's all I'm prepared to say right now."

The others nodded their assent, some smiled at him and he heard a few "that's okay's," and he quickly sat down, his heart pounding, and for the first time in years he felt his breath coming easily.

The older man next to him offered Daniel his hand. Daniel took it, and the man said, "Well done." Daniel thanked him, shook the man's hand.

He knew that this solitary, secret life was over. That he didn't have to carry the world or his pain by himself anymore.

---SG1---

"I'm not drunk, Jack," Daniel said again, trying hard to lift his head off the back of his passenger-side seat.

"I know you're not, Daniel," Jack said again, checking the speed of his truck. Only six, seven more minutes, he thought with desperation. "Just keep talking to me, do you hear me?"

But once again, Daniel's head lolled, and he fell into an oblivion that frightened Jack enough to step on the gas, upping his already dangerous speed. With one hand, he reached over and tapped Daniel's cheek, which felt clammy under his fingers. Daniel's head rolled as the truck swerved a little, his eyes rolled back and his breathing sounded much too erratic.

"Hey, now. Wake up for me, Daniel," Jack nearly pleaded, snapping his eyes back to the road. "We're almost at the SGC, buddy."

All Jack received was a feeble moan.

"Dammit," Jack whispered, taking a corner much too fast.

No, Daniel wasn't drunk, but in a strange twist of fate, or irony, Jack wished to God he were. Drunk would be simple. Drunk you could get mad at. Drunk would allow him to yell and hit things. This—a barely responsive, pale, sweating man—this was frightening, and Jack really didn't like frightening moments, moments that were out of his control.

And this, watching Daniel collapse, right before his eyes, it was totally out of his control. He didn't know what was wrong, but in the time it had taken Jack to help Daniel over the rail on his balcony, into his apartment, and then into Jack's truck, Jack had watched his friend... come apart. His lucidity, his consciousness, his body control—all of it.

"Daniel, come on!" Jack yelled, rubbing his knuckles against Daniel's sternum, eliciting as much pain as he could. Daniel groaned and pressed his head into the car seat. Jack took a much-needed deep breath and hoped he had bought his friend another couple of minutes.

Janet would be waiting, along with her staff. They'd meet him at the mouth of the mountain. _Just get him to Janet, and she'd know what to do, _Jack chanted to himself_. Just get him to the SGC. He'll be all right once he's there. Just…_

"Almost there, Daniel," he said, but Daniel had slumped over against the door. Jack tried to prop him up, all the while steering on-handed down the highway. "Come on, bud. Stay with me!" Jack pressed his fingers to Daniel's neck, grabbed hold of his Daniel's boneless wrist, trying to find his pulse, trying not to careen off the road. "Daniel, let's go!"

His truck's engine growled, furiously churning out more RPMs than it was used to. Miles flew by in a blur. Jack forced his eyes to keep on the road, not on Daniel. Keep looking at the road.

Jack was hitting 93 MPH when he came to the patrolled entrance drive to the mountain. Jack fished around for his ID, but apparently a call had already been made to the security detail who watched over the gate because it was thankfully already open and waiting for him.

"We're on the grounds, Daniel," Jack said, one hand one the back of Daniel's neck, holding up his head, one hand maintaining his side of the road. The mouth of the mountain became closer and clearer and bigger, until, with a skid, Jack jammed the truck into park.

Before he could run to Daniel's door, Janet and her staff were already there, sliding the unconscious man from the passenger seat and placing him on a gurney.

"Is he gonna be okay?" he asked, standing helplessly at the front of his truck, but no one had the time or inclination to answer him. All he do was stand there and watch, and pray.

"Hold his head."

"Get that IV started."

"Daniel? Open your eyes, Daniel."

"How long has he been unconscious?" Janet asked, snapping Jack from his shocked fascination.

"Umm, I don't know. Couple of minutes, maybe. He was kind of in and out," Jack managed, watching Daniel's slack hand slip from the gurney.

Janet nodded, pulling back Daniel's eyelid and snapping on her penlight. "Pupils are sluggish."

An oxygen mask was placed over his mouth.

"Colonel O'Neill," said a nearby airman, "I'll park your truck for you, sir."

Daniel's shirt was sliced open. And then the medical team was running with him, racing along the pavement toward the elevators.

"Colonel O'Neill," prodded the airman.

Jack fixed his eyes on the young man, not really seeing him, waiting for the words the man had spoken to break through all the other words and sounds around him. And when they did, Jack nodded his permission, then ran to catch up with the squad of people rushing to keep Daniel alive.

"Hold that elevator!" Janet called, and the team bustled into the enclosure. All except Jack, who was halted at the entrance. "Colonel, I'll call you when I know more."

As though in a daze, Jack caught the next elevator and stumbled to the infirmary where he was ordered to wait outside. He stood in the hallway, his back to the wall, and he felt strangely numb.

"Colonel!" yelled Sam, charging down the hall toward Jack, Teal'c close behind. "How is he?"

Jack turned his head in Sam's direction, and tore a hand through his hair, trying to get his brain to kick back into gear. "I have no idea."

"What happened when you got to his apartment? Did he- Was he—"

"No, Carter," Jack said, waving off the barrage of questions, knowing what she had been about to ask. It was what they all believed would be the case: Daniel taking a long tumble off the wagon. "No, but he's not... right. He was…talking crazy and standing on the wrong side of his balcony railing."

"What?" Sam gasped, her mouth dropping open in horror.

"Listen, Carter, Teal'c," Jack said, looking at his teammates in turn, his voice shaking as the reality of what had almost happened fully sunk in. _Jesus, if he'd been a few minutes later..._ "Did he seem at all…off this week? I mean, you know, more than usual."

"DanielJackson seemed to be managing quite well," Teal'c said.

Sam looked at him, then shook her head, her eyes bright with the threat of tears. She looked down, then blurted, "Do you think... that maybe when Shifu…"

"No, no," Jack said, waving her off. They'd been through it all. He and Daniel had a long talk on the their favorite trail and Daniel had told him everything. He had been given a dream, a dream that taught him a lesson on the dangerous power of absolute control. Daniel had admitted that the dream had scared the hell out of him, and he sometimes still had nightmares over it, but the message had been received loud and clear. And, yes, he would miss the boy, but…

But then Jack remembered Daniel's expression when Shifu left the SGC—forlorn, lost. Jack braced both hands against the wall and leaned heavily into it.

Sam wrapped one arm around her waist, one hand to her mouth. "He's just been through so much lately... maybe..."

_Maybe he just snapped,_ Jack finished in his mind. _Had enough._

"Well, all I _do_ know for sure is that he was about a minute away from doing a header into the street," he said after a moment. The glower from Teal'c and renewed look of shock on Sam's face was more Jack could deal with right now. "Go back, look over that video again. There's gotta be something we missed."

"Yes, sir," Sam said. "Will you be here?"

"Where else?" Jack said wearily. Daniel's surly, _yes, sir, _echoed in his mind. _You know, it is beyond my comprehension how anybody like yourself, who has so much power, can miss the point entirely!"_

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering his friend's outburst the day before. At the time, Jack had fully believed that Daniel was drinking again. A sober Daniel never would have talked that way.

And then when he didn't show up for their disembark, it was just one more reason to believe that all their hard work had been for naught. Jack had been fairly certain he'd show up at that apartment, find a table full of empties, and Daniel back at square one.

And if that had happened, Jack suspected he would have been tempted to wash his hands of Daniel. To march into the apartment, calm and collected, and end all relations with his friend right there and then. There were only so many lines that could be crossed. Or so he thought, but he'd never know now, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad one.

He thought of that balcony and how damn close it had come. He thought of all those seemingly incoherent, tearful words Daniel had spoken, his trembling hands the only thing keeping from dropping off the edge. _I tried... it just... goes away... _Jack remembered Daniel saying those words before, and he hoped to God that it hadn't come to this. _None of it means anything... _That it hadn't gotten so bad again without Jack realizing.

Then, with one single word, Jack's name whispered on Daniel's lips, and somehow, his friend had come back to him from whatever abyss had sunk into. With one quick step Jack had him. Safe. Much as he wanted to, Jack hadn't directly yanked Daniel over the railing. He hadn't wanted to scare him any further. Jack had swung Daniel's arm over his shoulder, grabbed him around the waist, and with every ounce of restraint, had carefully hoisted him over the rail, surprised at how much weight he had lost over the past few months. Daniel had fallen against him, his limbs heavy, boneless, and Jack had held on tight.

He'd all but carried his friend through the apartment, down the hall and punched the button for the elevator.

Daniel leaned heavily against him, and then he'd raised his head enough to stare Jack straight in the eye, and with a voice and cognizance that was beyond what he should have been capable of, very clearly said, "I'm not drunk."

"I know you're not," Jack had reassured him, hefting his friend's weight in his arms as the elevator door opened. He was immensely grateful that no one else was inside. "Just hang in there, buddy. It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay, buddy." He remembered babbling all the way down and to the truck, but Daniel hadn't seemed to be able to hear him anymore.

All those scraps of his friend's non-sensical words, the rush of his own scrambled emotions tumbled over and over in Jack's head.

He sighed, rubbed his forehead, and when he realized that his legs were shaking a little, he slid down to sit on the floor, and decided that he was getting too old for all this shit.

* * *

--- tbc ---


	16. Reparations pt 8

And here we are, the final chapter. This story has been a work in-progress through almost three years, three? four? respective changes of residence, mutliple career changes, some ups, some downs, and it feels a little strange now that it's done. Thanks so much for sticking by this story, and for the great reviews - we do greatly appreciate and treasure every one of them.

And now... the final stretch:

* * *

Daniel didn't remember any of it.

One minute he was in his apartment, making a cup a tea, the next he was sitting on the steps of a faraway planet, the last place he had remembered feeling well.

So strange, all of it. This lack of memory wasn't like the blackouts he'd experienced drinking. The after-effects of those were ghosts of memories, hovering around the periphery of his mind. After waking from a drunken blackout, he had to deal with the physical ramifications and sometimes the monetary ramifications.

No, this was different. Since arriving back on the planet, the initial fatigue and lethargy had tapered, and the only conscious memory that remained was a clear image of making tea. Everything after that, gone, as though none of it had even happened.

And maybe that was a blessing. From the reports he received concerning those lost hours, it wasn't, as Jack said, pretty.

Jack, for his part, was also grateful for Daniel's lack of memory. It wasn't one he would relish in his old age.

Life on the planet, sitting in this Byzantine-inspired pleasure dome, was slow. It was quiet, and it was restful. In short, it was absolutely what he, Daniel and Sam needed to regroup.

Primarily Daniel.

For years, Daniel had used many excuses to justify why he'd never taken the time to stop and take stock of his life. His education, his publications, his all-too brief time on Abydos, his search for Sha're and then Shifu, his job with the SGC and the fighting the Goa'uld and protecting his very planet, all of that was much more important.

But now... this silent place presented him with more than enough time and opportunity to do just that. To stop, to think, to figure out how he had come to be in this particular place. Not just his physical surroundings, but his state of mind and where he was heading.

The only problem with taking stock is that some of those insights weren't entirely pleasant. But it was part of the process, he supposed. No pain, no gain, right?

And his life had become a myriad of processes. The process of withdrawal. The process of recovery. The process of sobriety. The process of building trust in his team. The process of regaining trust in himself. The process of being honest.

His team were all involved in processes, including Loran, and it was quickly understood that Daniel was well suited for assisting in the young man's own arduous progression toward forgiveness and acceptance. Loran told Daniel about his parents, and Daniel told Loran about his parents.

Loran told him tales of the adventures he and his parents had taken, and Daniel related tales of digging through archeological sites with his own parents. Loran spoke about how frightening it was living with parents who had neglected him due to addiction, and Daniel spoke about how his parents taught him Arabic.

For some reason, he found it important not to ever disclose his mother's secret, the one she had, whether directly, or by learned association, passed on to her son.

Honesty, it turned out, was the hardest process of all.

Writing in his journal, a process, well, more of a ritual he had maintained for most of his life, and had in recent months abandoned, became a renewed and consuming passion in those days.

In his chosen corner, in the Light room, outside—for short bursts of time—near the seashore, on the steps of the Gate—Daniel hunkered down with his journal and wrote until his fingers became cramped and almost numb. And what came out were those memories that had been docked in waiting for years. They were threads of his past, and by following a path, the patterns of his life were revealed.

He thought it was ironic that he had spent the greater part of his life excavating the remains of other people's lives while simultaneously trying to bury his own.

And so it was in the midst of sifting through his life's fragments one afternoon that Sam chanced upon him. He was on the beach, sitting hunched on a large piece of driftwood, enjoying the salty fresh air. Sam paused for a moment, wondering if she should interrupt him. Just about to walk away, Daniel called out to her.

"Am I disturbing you?" she asked, feeling suddenly awkward. "If you'd rather be alone-"

"No," he said, straightening his back, the muscles aching from hours hunched over his journal. "No. It's okay..." And if Sam felt awkward, Daniel was downright uncomfortable.

Of all his friends and coworkers, Sam was the one person he hadn't been able to reclaim, not completely. Of all his friends and coworkers, Sam and Jack were the two he needed to bring closest. He and Jack were well on their way, pushing on through to find that connection once again. But, Sam…

"Do you..." he paused and brushed off some of the sand on the wood beside him, "you wanna sit down?"

"Sure." Sam smiled and sat down.

"Sure." Sam smiled and sat down. She looked out over the water, seemingly as lost in thought as Daniel had been.

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

"You seem…What are you thinking about?"

"Oh," Sam said, blinking, not aware that she had so easily let down her guard. "Oh. Nothing. Something I hadn't thought about in a long time."

"Yeah?" he said, turning to look at her. She glanced at him, then at the journal he held tightly in his hands. "Like what?"

"I was thinking about when I was a little girl and all the times my parents brought me to Mass," she said, then laughed a little, embarrassed. "I used to get bored and watch people. You just... the way you're were sitting, you reminded of how they would lean over their prayer books, cradling them in their hands." She mimed the motion with her own hands.

He smiled, and it was a little progress. Even a week ago, she probably wouldn't have told him that.

"I've only been to Mass once," he said. "One of my friend's parents invited me along after I told them that I was an atheist. I think they were trying to salvage what was left of my soul."

Sam grinned. "How old were you?"

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know. Ten, maybe."

"So cynical at such a young age," she said, returning his smile.

"Yeah, well," he shrugged again. "When you have archaeologists for parents... I got bored, too, and started reading a comic book. They never invited me again. Probably figured I was a lost cause."

Sam began to fidget. "Daniel…"

"So, I've been thinking a lot about…" he said, interrupting her, taking advantage of this rare, unguarded moment to try to break down this fragile wall between them. "I know there are things I need to say to you, things I need to explain."

"That's okay," she said, looking at him, surprised.

"No," he told her, shaking his head, "It's not okay. I…" He hardly knew where to begin. He lifted his journal and skimmed what he'd written. "I'm sitting here, trying to accept certain facts about myself. I'm trying to work it into my general description—I'm 6'2", with brown hair, blue eyes, my wife is dead, I'm a PhD, I'm an alcoholic, and I wear size 11 shoes. I figure if I keep saying it like that, maybe one day, it won't feel like I'm saying that I'm a serial killer." He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. "What do you think?"

Sam smiled, then met his gaze, her eyes somber. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Daniel."

"I know," he said nodding, "I keep trying to tell myself that, but, but what I _am_ ashamed of is... is how I treated you… You were always there for me, trying to help me and... and I was too messed up to realize it. To appreciate it."

"Daniel, it's okay," Sam protested, "I know you weren't yourself-"

"No.. let me finish, okay?" He looked at her until she nodded. "I said some… terrible things to you. I did. I remember, and it can't be excused away as the alcohol talking. I was being a selfish asshole. I forced you to cover for me at the sake of our friendship and your career. I'll never understand why you…how you can still…" He had to stop to catch his breath, to swallow down the tightness in his throat. "Sam, your friendship means more to me than anything... and I... I just hope that maybe one day-"

"Daniel," Sam said, reaching out to touch his arm. "I know. I understand. This has just been really hard. I hated having to see you like that."

He looked deep into her eyes, and within that warmth, Daniel found a part of himself that he'd thought he'd lost. And he'd found it safe in Sam's eyes. "Do you forgive me? Can you forgive me?"

"It's already done," she said and reached down to grasp his hand. "Don't you know that I love you, you jerk? And _nothing _is ever going to change that, okay?"

"Okay," he said, and twined his fingers in hers.

"Well?" she said, looking at him.

"Well what?"

"When someone tells you that they love you, you're supposed to say it back."

He grinned and looked down, feeling his face redden a little. "Oh, right. Well, I love you, too. All of you guys, but don't expect me to say that to Jack or Teal'c."

"Your secret's safe with me," Sam said and snuggled a little closer to him until their shoulders were touching.

A silence descended upon them, one of camaraderie, but also of loss. A loss of time, of things that had never been said, and things that should have been said.

"Daniel, can we talk about Sha're?"

Daniel stiffened a little and gripped his journal. The pages were filled with memories, with stories of Sha're. Not just of her tragic death, or his ignominious decline. The goal was to remember her, to immortalize her in a way. To forever capture the love they'd shared, to honor her spirit and her courage, how she'd fought against an unimaginable fate. It was easy to put the words on paper. But to speak of Sha're? He wasn't certain if he could do that, but for Sam, he would try.

Daniel cleared his throat, hoping when he spoke that his voice would be clear, strong and hide the true fear and reluctance. "This journal is turning out to be my catharsis," he told Sam. He ran his fingers over the pages almost reverentially. "You know, I drank for so long, just so I didn't have to remember things. The really bad, ugly things, you know?"

"Yeah. I know."

"Well, of course, the problem with that is I never let myself remember the good stuff, too. So, I'm writing." He flipped through the pages of the book, and while he did, the names of the dead flipped past him—Sha're, Mom, Dad—as did the treasured names of those places where his life began, flourished, ended—Cairo, Chicago, Abydos…

Sam pressed a little closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder, watching the words of his journal pass like leaves caught in an autumn breeze.

"I have to learn how to remember again," he said, lowering the journal, lifting his eyes to focus on the horizon. "When I was drinking, everything was a sign. When I…" A sudden breath, a chasm of pain he needed to leap over. He shook his head, and continued. "When I was drinking, I really thought Sha're knew what I was doing and that she'd be so disappointed in me. Or, that my mother…" Once again, he paused. To speak of his mother meant he'd have to divulge what he only now was beginning to understand. Another part of him wanted to protect her, to safeguard her memory, but he knew he could trust Sam with this final secret.

"My mom drank, too. I've never told anyone that before, Sam," he paused to look at her and she nodded, a silent promise that what they shared now would be forever between them alone. He gave her a faint, grateful smile, adjusted his grip on her hand, then forced himself to continue, "When I was drinking, really laying into it, I had these thoughts that my mother could see me drinking, and I hoped she'd feel_ really_ bad for that." He chuffed at the ridiculousness of his words, at how immature, how impossible they sounded. "I have so few good memories of them—of my mom, my dad, Sha're..." He released Sam's hand and closed the journal, silencing the memories for a moment, and turning the book over in his hands. "I want to focus on those good memories for a while."

Sam again nodded that she understood. She brushed a tear off her cheek. He took her hand again. He could feel the tremors starting up, and soon the crawling, restless, thrumming would course through his veins, a different kind of need this time. He could feel Sam's hand shaking a little, too, but they still had time before they had to go back the Light room. Neither of them wanted to go back yet.

Relishing the little time they had left alone together, they sat in silence, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, and Daniel found himself focusing on the here and now. The sounds of the waves, Sam's fingers twined in his, the warmth of her body pressed against his, and for the first time in a long time, he was at peace.

This was a moment he would catalogue among the good memories in his journal one day. It was one worth remembering forever.

---SG1---

The air was cold and clear. Ice crystals glinted against the winter-morning sky. Mountain peaks snagged wispy mare's tails.

And down below, on the silvery, frozen alpine, they came from all directions—the newly cognizant, the seasoned observers. They came to share their stories, to seek absolution, to remember why they returned.

Daniel joined them, walking in step, occasionally offering a greeting to another he recognized. They took their seats, straddling picnic benches, sitting atop picnic tables. Some simply rested against log poles. When the obligatory announcements were over and a request was made for volunteers, Daniel stepped forward.

"My name is Daniel, and I'm an alcoholic," he said, his focus skimming over the faces in that crowded the mountain pavilion. "I've been sober for…" He stopped, looked at the Two-Months Clean keychain in the palm of his hand, and could hardly believe so much time had passed. "I've been sober ten weeks and two days, but only recently, I've come to know why I need to stay sober."

Daniel scuffed his shoe against the dirt, a nervous habit, and summoned both the strength and willingness to keep going. "See, about a year ago, I lost my wife. I thought that if I didn't have to think about the pain, if I drank long and hard enough, I'd be able to get past those first few... awful... terrible months. Well, I was wrong. Grief, I've come to find out, has incredible staying power. It waits."

A brisk wind swept through the pavilion, and Daniel, and the congregants, drew coats closer, hats farther down. Winter had come early this year. For Daniel, though, it was a welcome change. It meant he could feel, and it reminded him of the months he had spent anesthetized against the world. His story, he decided, must go on.

"My wife—she loved me, even when I went through a time where was a fall-down drunk. I'll never know what she…" The weight of her memory and strength bore down on him, and Daniel took a moment to let that burden settle in, become more manageable. "She'd say, 'Danyel, the drink has summoned a beast in you.' She'd say…" Again, the onus of the past stopped him short. Drawing his shoulders back and letting his eyes close against the cold, he pushed through the pain. "She'd say, 'This is madness, husband.' Madness." Despite his heavy coat, Daniel felt the cold seep into his skin, felt the sting of tears come to his eyes when the wind became a cutting blast. Beyond the pavilion, the sight of the monochromatic mountain ridge against the azure sky enervated him. He felt…alive. He felt sober and sparking with life. "My wife would have loved it here. I'd like to think she'd be pleased that I'm here, too. So anyhow," he said, "everyday is a little easier, and every day that I'm sober helps me to go forward, and I know my wife would want that. So, uh, thanks."

Daniel found his seat amongst the others, shook a few proffered hands. The wind tickled down his neck, across his ear, and within it, he heard Sha're's voice_—"Yes, husband, there is the goodness. It is your true core, this goodness. I love you, my husband. Our demons are gone."_

---SG1---

The thought kept pestering him, even after their return to the SGC and what was, for them, normal. It was the one area of his life that wasn't settled. It was the question "What if?"

So he'd made the decision, but refused to think about the ramifications. He'd gone online, found a cheap flight that would get him there in the morning and back home that night. He'd only told one person where he was going—Jack. He didn't feel the need to explain this to anyone else.

That morning, he had jumped out of bed (having hardly slept), taken a quick shower, gathered his boarding pass. No books, no files, no iPod—he didn't want any extraneous gear to get in the way. Something inside him said this had to be done simply, in the most pure way he could conjure up.

He had slept on the plane, or at least he had dozed a little. And when the plane touched down, his ability to keep his emotions in check began to wane. His pulse increased, his hands began to sweat. Still, there was a forward momentum in place, and he'd be damned if he'd let a little anticipatory nerves stop him. After twenty years, there were things that had to be said, needed to be made clear. And yes, that was a little scary, but he'd done plenty of scary things, much more frightening than this, especially in the name of what was right and good and important.

He tried to tell himself that this fear wasn't the man in him but the boy.

And it needed to be done. Twenty years was a long time to wait.

It had been a decade or so since he'd been at JFK. The terminal had changed. A little brighter, more "futuristic," a term that always resounded with a sense of irony in him. Gone were the flipping letters and numbers stating gate changes. LEDs and computer monitors lined the walls. He followed the signs to ground transportation. To calm his nerves, he read those signs in all seven languages, just to make sure there weren't any grammatical or syntactical mistakes. He followed the current of anonymous travelers through the cavernous terminal and down the bottleneck of the escalators. Once they reached the bottom, people seemed to scatter away in every direction, leaving a group of stationary men and women holding signs for those whose connections ended there.

What was the name of the limo service? Airport Pickups. That was it. He scanned the signs, most of which were illegible or hastily written. He only had six hours before he had to be back on the plane, and the minutes wasted trying to find his name amongst the scrabble began to rasp against his nerves.

Drivers and travelers paired up, thinning out the crowd, and finally Daniel saw his name—Jackson. Not Daniel, not Doctor, not Mister. Just Jackson. He stepped up to the squat, disinterested man holding the sign, nodded at him, and the driver flicked the sign under his arm and started for the waiting Town Car.

"You got any bags?" the driver asked over his shoulder.

Daniel frowned at him, then looked around to where the driver might possibly think he was hiding any luggage, but simply and politely told him no.

A blast of cold air hit them once outside, and they instinctually drew their shoulders to their ears. The driver opened the backdoor of the Town Car for Daniel and skulked around the front of the car to his own door. He picked up a clipboard and turned just enough for his voice to carry over the back of the seat.

"New Rochelle?"

"Yes," Daniel said, fastening his seat belt.

"2155 Aiken Avenue?"

"Yes."

Any further conversation ended, the engine turned over, and Daniel was on his way. The choice of a car service over the subway was already paying off.

If there was one thing Daniel absolutely loved about New York City, it was its ability to hide a person within its crowded borders. People didn't expect the ubiquitous mid-western hello from strangers, nor were they offended by sliding a window up between you and them. At least not limo drivers.

Enclosed in the backseat, Daniel set his mind to the next step—what to say. He had waited for days to even begin to think about the conversation he was about to have. For once he thought Jack's maxim of "you think too much" applied, and so he had put the particulars of this meeting out of his head.

Until now.

_Hello_, he thought. _Do you know who I am?_

No, that was too cordial.

_There are things you and I need to talk about, and I thought we'd start by discussing…_

Too didactic. He needed less objectivity and more outright honesty.

_I'm Daniel Jackson. Maybe you remember me._

Yes, but more. Not just an acknowledgement of the present, but an indictment of the past.

_You said my father was a failure, and you tried to convince me I would be, too. I'm here to set the record straight._

Close, but not quite.

_Do you remember me? You told me I'd never amount to anything. Well, you were wrong. I'd like to show you a few things I've learned since we last saw each other…_

No, that wasn't right, either. Daniel could feel the adrenaline buzzing through his limbs, up the back of his neck. He leaned his elbow into the armrest and pressed the heel of his hand into his aching brow. Words didn't seem to be enough. He tore off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. After everything he'd seen and experienced, he decided that he was being ridiculous. He'd simply knock on the door, set his jaw, look Davies straight in the eye, and say, _Do you remember, me, you son of a bitch?_

Could he do this? He had no choice. Number six on the list of twelve said that he had to get rid of defects in character. Being able to stand eye-to-eye with Graham Davies was the surest way Daniel could think of ridding himself of that one particular defect—the defect of fear.

_I'm a PhD. What are you?_

No, Doctorates of Philosophy meant nothing to a man like Davies. What mattered was the Golden Rule, as in "he who has the gold, rules."

_Call me Doctor Jackson, _Graham.

A man like Davies would respond to that kind of power. Davies was the kind of man who puffed out his chest and wore you down to a nub with his despotisms, and when that didn't work, he broke you with the back of his hand.

Daniel could almost feel the slice of Davies' signet ring across his fourteen-year-old cheek. He pinched his eyes shut and swallowed hard.

Daniel's shirt collar was damp with sweat, as well as his palms. He put his glasses back on, then thought of Jack's advice where glasses and weaknesses were concerned. Daniel tore them off again, folded them up, and placed them in his inside jacket pocket. The whir of the partition startled him.

"2155 Aiken," the driver asked.

"What? Already?" Daniel pushed back his sleeve and looked at his watch. Thirty-five minutes had flown by while he had perseverated over these plans, twenty years in the making.

"You want I should drive around the block?"

With a muttered curse, Daniel threw his glasses back on, peered out the window, and instantly recognized the white colonial.

"This is the place, right?" the driver asked.

These were the same black shutters that he had spent weekends scraping and painting, hanging and washing. There was the oak, much taller now. That would have made it a lot easier to escape the tyranny.

"So, what? Is this the place, or no?"

Daniel pulled off his glasses, and nodded. "This is it." He pulled his wallet from his pocket, fished out a twenty, and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "I'm gonna need you to wait for a few minutes. I won't be long."

"Your money," the man said with a shrug.

Daniel left his glasses on the seat, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the car and into the street. He could _feel_ Davies in the house, could feel that rigid, oppressive force. It was a palpable shockwave emanating from the core of the house, hitting Daniel squarely in the chest.

He glanced both ways down the street. The houses that book-ended the Davies' had changed, and by looking at them he was able to abate some of the wildly careening memories coursing through his mind. There, on the curb, the stenciled numbers—2155. He remembered having to paint, repaint and repaint again those numbers. "You'll do it until they are straight and clear, Dan. Straight and clear." _Jesus…_

The same walkway. The edging was sharp. Daniel never understood why grass had to be tamed in such a way. Same cold, white siding. There was that same formidable silence that pressed out of the house. Even in abject fury, the silence was the worst part. Daniel's heart raced, but he forced himself to breathe as normally as he could, and continued his walk toward the house.

What if Dolores answered?

_No,_ he decided. Dolores had never opened the door. People and circumstances don't change. _Davies alone will answer the door_, he thought with absolute assurance.

There was Daniel's old room, the curtains looking unchanged and meticulously hung. He wondered how long after he'd gone it had taken Davies to find the bottle of rye Daniel had hidden in the eaves just outside his window. Sweat dappled his shirt.

_Do you remember me... _

The dark green shrubbery around the stoop was exactly how Daniel remembered it—manicured and angular. Completely out of fashion with the assorted colorful landscaping up and down the street.

And then he was at the black door. His breath caught in his lungs; his ears rang. He knocked once, then three more times, harder. He turned his ear toward the door, tried to catch any movement through the gauzy window treatments in the side windows. There didn't seem to be anyone in the house. He was sure his Internet research listed them both—Graham and Dolores—still residing in this house. It hadn't even occurred to him that they may not be home, and he felt an odd combination of regret and relief.

_Maybe they were at work or—_

The doorknob rattled. A vacuum of air, and the door was open. Daniel clenched his teeth.

"Yes?" said the man.

Daniel stared at the old man, whose face held a mask of illness. Had he always been so short? Daniel lowered his eyes a full four inches from where he thought he'd be peering, blinked and looked again. "Is this, uh…" he began, stepping back to take another look at the numbers over the door.

The man's hair was gray and wispy; his skin was pale and thin. Light brown blotches stained his scalp.

Daniel cleared his throat. "Is this, uh…I'm, uh…"

"What do you want?"

_A memory_, Daniel supposed. It was as if a great storm had been percolating miles away, only to have the system die at your county line. The hours of preparation had been useless. A waste of time.

"I was given this address," he said, glancing over the man's shoulder. Same striped wallpaper that had always supported his idea that this home was a prison. "I was looking for someone who lived here a long time ago."

"I'm the sole owner of this home. I'm Graham Davies."

_Jesus_, Daniel thought. _This can't be the same man. It can't be._

"Who are you?" the old man demanded, his glassy eyes veiled behind wrinkled, droopy lids. "Do I know you?" he asked, squinting at Daniel.

"I think I have the wrong Graham Davies," Daniel said, certain that he had made a mistake.

And then a spark of recognition lit the old man's eyes. He leaned toward Daniel, mouth agape, two fingers pressed to his pale lips. "I _do _know you."

"No, I don't think you do," Daniel said, taking a few unconscious steps back.

"I never forget a face," the man said, peering deep into Daniel's eyes, probing, assessing, looking for weakness. "It's been a long time, but I'm sure—"

For a moment, Daniel didn't breathe. And then he recognized him, too. It was the eyes. The same colorless, emotionless eyes. Flat, cold, like the eyes of the dead. He stared at Davies, at his rounded, stooped shoulders, at his curved back, his sloped neck. He couldn't help but take in Davies' hand curled around the doorknob—tissue-thin skin and deformed, arthritic joints. The same gold ring that had cracked so often against Daniel's face remained, loose around Davies' finger, held in place only by the arthritic knuckle.

"No," Daniel said, averting his eyes, and there wasn't any point to this. Not anymore. Time had already ravaged the man for him. "I've got the wrong house. I'm sorry to have-"

"Come closer," Davies demanded, crooking his finger at him.

Daniel bristled. That tone of voice hadn't changed one bit either, that same voice that had scolded him, humiliated him, beat him down.

"I know you. You're that boy I took in. Dan. You haven't changed much," he said, still peering at Daniel's face.

Daniel stepped back, shook his head, and said, "No. My name isn't Dan. It's Doctor Jackson." Still Davies stared at him, and Daniel met that icy, unrelenting glare full on. "And you don't know me. You never have."

Daniel turned away from Davies, walked down the steps. Reaching the limo, he gave the house one last look. A strip of siding next to the upper eave was loose and waved in the breeze. Shingles were covered in moss; an arc of a scrape from the oak tree scarred the roof. The windows were sooty and dull. Davies stood in the open doorway, still watching him.

And a ghost of a figure in Daniel's former room raised her tiny hand and pressed it against the glass. Deep sadness draped over his shoulders, and Daniel lifted his hand to her. At least he had escaped. At least he had been able to leave it behind. Dolores Davies' slight outline faded from the window, and Daniel slid into the backseat.

He took a moment to collect himself, his head against the back of the seat, his breaths coming in shallow pants. He wiped the sweat from his brow and closed his eyes. It was over. It was unsatisfying and anticlimactic, and yet he was glad he had found the courage to go through with it.

"That it?" the driver asked, his arm crooked over the back.

"Yeah. We're done here." Daniel breathed out, raising his head. He fished around in his coat pocket for a scrap of paper he'd placed inside his coat. Just in case. He unfolded the paper, then showed it to the driver. "I have a different address. 78 Prospect Hill. Pelham. Do you know where that is?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I do."

When the driver pulled away from the curb, Daniel leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and somehow managed to sleep for a little while.

When they arrived, he opened his eyes, clear and calm. He'd never been to this home. _Her_ home. Even so, it seemed to radiate her warmth. A plump, longhaired cat lolled on the top stoop, soaking in what little heat there was in the low sunlight. Daniel reached out and ran a hand down its silky side. He came to the door, and found an odd sensation washing over him; serenity. Nothing to lose by being here, and nothing to be gained, either. It was just another stop along the way.

Before he could knock, the door swung open, startling him, and an older man with round, old-fashioned spectacles and gentle face smiled at him.

"Didn't mean to scare you. I saw you walking up the steps. How can I help you?" he asked.

"Uh, I... I was looking for Lila...?"

"Oh, sure," the man said, making way for Daniel to enter the foyer. "She's just out back. I'll go get her."

The man stepped away before Daniel could thank him or stop him. Which left him standing glued to his spot in the foyer, feeling like if he took one step further he'd be imposing. He looked around the living room—comfortable and rich with deep earthy colors. The hardwood floors gleamed under a thick Persian rug. A few smartly framed photos adorned the mantle. Tidy. _Too_ tidy. Not like he'd remembered at all.

The clip-clop of a quick stride began to sound closer, and Daniel felt his pulse begin to race again. The "what ifs?" began again, too.

"What can I do for you?" she said, and the tone in her voice touched something inside him. It was as if a crack in a bell had been healed, and the sound vibrated warm and deep within him. Overwhelmed, Daniel looked away from her and into the living room. He pointed at the surroundings, dropped his hand, but when his voice wouldn't come, Daniel pointed again.

Lila craned her neck following the direction of his hand. She quickly searched behind her for her husband's presence.

"Is there, uh…" she said uncertainly.

"Your house is clean," Daniel finally managed.

The words stopped her, and then the realization propelled her forward. The voice, the timbre of a young man she had known so well. She laughed and clapped her hands together with delight. "Well, if it isn't my Little Prince, come for me at last."

And like that, the warmth of the house was anchored around Daniel by way of Lila's arms. She patted him on the back, laughed into his ear, stretching a bit to hook her chin on his shoulder. He smiled and buried his face in her soft, silver hair. She smelled of vanilla and lavender, of daylight, acceptance and love. Just like he remembered.

"Oh, let me look at you," she said, grasping him by the upper arms and stepping back. "I want you to tell me everything!" Her eyes sparkled with surprise, with watery joy. But when she saw his eyes, bloodshot and full of far too much grief and disappointment, Lila laid her hand on his cheek, and said, "What is it? What's happened?"

He was sure his voice would betray him, and so he just shook his head. He swallowed hard before speaking again. "I just..." he stammered and managed a smile. "I was in town... and I... I wanted to see you again."

Lila smiled again and patted his cheek. "I'm so glad you stopped by. This is a _wonderful_ surprise, Daniel," she took hold of hand and led him to the warm, inviting living room. "Come, sit down. We have far too much to catch up on."

Daniel followed her and paused at the mantel. There were framed photos of Lila and the man who had answered the door, Lila when she was younger, some kids he didn't recognize, and there was one of him. It was his high school graduation photo, and he had a wide, happy grin plastered on his startlingly innocent face. Daniel was surprised to see himself looking so happy at that age.

Lila stood beside him, watching him. "My kids," she said with a shrug. "You were always my favorite, though."

He smiled. "I bet you say that to all your kids."

They moved to the couch and they talked and they caught up. Sipping cup after cup of coffee, Daniel found himself telling her everything. Well, as much that was unclassified. She listened and held his hand through the parts that were difficult to admit, that he had to force out, and there Daniel found the answer to all those "what ifs?"

And the answer was, "You will heal."

---SG1---

The Colorado Avalanche had just scored on Minnesota, an easy five-hole shot, and Jack was inconsolable. The season was over, even though it was early in the regular season, and the game was lost, even though it was six minutes into the first period.

"You're killing me, McClennan!" he shouted at the TV in disgust. Jack picked up his empty beer bottle and decided he needed the comfort of something reliable, unlike goalies, and he'd find it in another beer.

Walking through the kitchen, the blustering storm outside the window caught Jack's attention. What had begun as a light rain, odd enough in December, was beginning to freeze, tapping against his window with each drop. _Great_, he thought, pulling a beer from the refrigerator, _road's'll be a mess in the morning._ With a snap, he sent the bottle cap sailing across the kitchen.

It hit the wall with a dull thud. Three times.

That stopped Jack. He took a cautionary step toward the bottle cap, peered at it, and heard the thuds again.

Straightening, Jack realized it was his front door, not the workings of a gram's worth of metal.

"What?" he said, whipping open the door.

There he was, huddled against the doorframe, shoulders up around his ears, soaked to the bone. "Daniel?"

"Yeah."

"Wha'cha doin' here?"

Daniel clutched his coat at the neck and shivered. "My apartment is another fifteen miles away. The roads are pretty bad."

Jack looked over Daniel's shoulder at his front lawn, gleaming with ice. "Yeah, I can see that."

"I just got in from New York."

"Get in here," Jack said, at once understanding that Daniel's unexpected visit had nothing to do with the state of the roads.

Daniel stepped into the house, stamped his feet and shrugged out his coat, heavy with sleet. Jack went to the linen closet and brought him a towel.

Daniel thanked him and rubbed the towel over his wet hair and the back of his neck.

"Roads are bad, huh?" Jack said, plunking himself down in front of the TV.

"Yeah, pretty nasty." Daniel took off his shoes, and motioned questioningly toward Jack with the towel. Jack told him to throw it down the hall.

"Can I get you anything?" Jack asked. He looked at the beer in his hand. "Um... sorry."

"Were you going to offer me one?"

"No, wasn't planning on it."

"Then don't apologize," Daniel said, stepping into the living room. "I'm the alcoholic, not you, remember?"

Alcoholic. There was that word that they had all tried to help Daniel reconcile with, and here it was presented in context, and Jack was the one who couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. "I have coffee."

"Maybe later."

"Juice?" Jack said, glancing at the game. It was still going badly and he looked back at his friend.

"I'm fine, Jack," Daniel told him, pacing back and forth a few times before taking a seat across from him.

"You sure?"

Daniel shifted back in his chair, rested his elbow on the armrest, chin on the heel of his hand, seemingly deep in thought.

"Daniel?"

"I _had_ to go there."

"Go where?"

"New York. It was important for me to go."

"Yes, it was," Jack agreed. "So... how'd it go?"

Daniel looked at him, chewing on his lip and didn't say anything, as though he was still working it through in his mind, still deciding. "It was okay," he said finally, "No... it was more... _strange,_ actually. It was worth it, but even still, it doesn't change anything."

"But…" Jack shook his head, confused.

"Davies turned out to be this... pathetic little old man," Daniel said with slight sneer. "It was hard to associate him with the same guy I was so scared of as a kid, and so I... I just walked away from him." He shifted, running his hands through his damp hair. "I saw Lila, too."

From Daniel's smile as he said the name, Jack knew things had gone a little better there. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Daniel's smile widened and he looked down at his feet. "It was good to see her again. I... I've done a lot of thinking these past few months, and I realized that all my life, I've never allowed myself to feel anything that was negative, or painful, or uncomfortable. It was too easy to drown it out. To numb myself, and I guess it became habit." He paused and twined his fingers together. "What I'm finding... what I'm realizing is that habit is almost as hard to break as the drinking. When Sha're died, I did everything I could not to be burdened by grief. I tried my damnedest not to burden you guys with it, also. Getting on that plane to New York was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but it also made me fully realize that while I can't change what's happened, I _can_ change my patterns and my way of thinking."

"Okay," Jack said, "That's... that's good."

"Yes, it is," Daniel agreed, nodding. He got up from the chair and came to stand before the crackling fireplace, holding his hands in front of the flames, warming them. "On the plane, I got bumped up to first class."

"Sweet."

"Yeah. The flight was delayed, and so all the passengers were given complementary beverages. The flight attendant gave me this," he said, pulling a mini-bottle of champagne from his pocket. "You'll notice it's still unopened."

"Good."

"When she gave it to me, I... I kind of panicked," Daniel said without looking at him. "I didn't know what to do or say. I wasn't sure if I should give it back to her, leave it on the plane, or what. The whole drive over here, I could _feel_ it in my pocket, like... some timebomb, or something." He paused, then glanced uncertainly at Jack. "You said if I ever needed to talk to someone..."

"Yes, I did."

"Well, I um... I need to... to talk..."

"This doesn't make me your sponsor, does it?" Jack said, worried that maybe he wasn't fully equipped to deal with this kind of situation.

"Nope," Daniel said, smirking at Jack's discomfiture. "I already have a sponsor. His name's Jason. He's your typical academic type - reads too much, thinks too much, can't tell football from hockey. You'd hate him." Daniel turned back to watch the dancing flames, the warmth soothing him. "What I think I need right now is a… a friend."

"And you've got one, right here, Danny," Jack told him.

"Thanks, Jack."

Jack rose from his couch, joined Daniel at the fireplace, clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll go make some coffee."

"Sounds good. I'd like that."

* * *

--- _finis_ ---


End file.
